Revert
by SUPRNTRAL LVR
Summary: Six months post-war, Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both kept for years. Dramione, Sick!Draco, flashbacks to Hogwarts, hurt
1. Chapter 1

**Revert**

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

Never done Harry Potter fanfiction before, and I'm aware it's an extremely beloved canon, so please do be gentle. Hope I don't get anything wrong!

Would just like to say before I start that I am very much aware that this isn't the first time someone's had this idea - hopefully I'm not stepping on anyone's toes with this fic. I've seen similar themes and ideas across the board - this is just my take on it.

* * *

 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

* * *

 _ **Then**_

 _ **Fourth Year**_

For weeks afterwards, he had no idea why he did it.

The Quidditch World Cup had been a tense affair, to say the least. His mother had spent the entire time trying desperately to pretend that they were all on a happy little family holiday while his father wallowed in a sullen, grim-faced silence. They were so at odds that every excursion, every meal, every interaction, ended up with harsh words being snapped across the table. He watched his mother's trembling hands as she tried to pour wine for them on the night of the victory, attempting to communicate silently with his father with wide, meaningful eyes. His father sat slouched in the plush chair beside the table in their tent, swirling his wine in one hand, the other wrapped around his cane. The cold plane of his face offered nothing in return to Narcissa's attempts at starting a conversation.

Draco sat between them with his own wine cradled in his lap, listening to his mother's anxious chatter. He doubted she even cared about the match she was currently trying to discuss. She had been trying to fill the silence for a solid fifteen minutes now. He nodded along when she directed question at him, answered briefly, but his father's sour temperament dampened the mood. He'd seen him talking with a man he vaguely recognised – Karkaroff, he might have heard – and who looked extremely concerned. Ever since the air had been apprehensive. He wanted to go and find Theodore Nott – he knew him vaguely from Hogwarts and their fathers had excitedly introduced them to one another before the World Cup game. Ralph Nott was an elderly, balding, somewhat unimpressive man who was clearly desperately trying to improve his social status; Draco hadn't seen anyone suck up to his father that much since their old house elf disappeared. But Theodore seemed alright and, more to the point, he had firewhiskey stashed under his bed. Which made him a much more interesting candidate for spending the night with.

He waited at least until he had finished his wine before rising to his feet, setting down his glass on the low table. His mother looked up expectantly, raising an eyebrow in a wordless question.

"I'm going to find some friends," he explained, straightening his shirt and blazer. "I think other people are celebrating."

He hadn't meant it to come out as insolent as it did, and his father's eyes narrowed warningly as they lifted to fix on him.

"You're not going out tonight."

Draco's eyebrows leapt upwards. He looked quickly at his mother, who had remained decisively silent.

"Why?"

His father gulped the last of his wine down and set it down, reached for the bottle to re-fill it. "We're staying in."

" _You_ might be."

"Draco."

When he was younger, the tone alone would have shut him up. Now, he wasn't quite as meek. He appealed to his mother, his brow furrowing in confusion and anger.

"I'm not just going to sit here all night. I'm not a child."

"Draco…" Narcissa's face was twisted with uncertainty. "We've heard… well, it's supposed to get a little rowdy tonight."

"Rowdy?"

"You're not going out, so you might as well sit down," his father said shortly.

Draco's temper spiked and he turned on his heel and headed off towards the front of the tent. He heard a slightly sizzle and then flinched as a jet of light shot past him – the tent flaps solidified, locked shut, and Draco whirled around to find his father slotting his wand back into his cane.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice rising. "What, you're going to lock me in?"

His father picked up his wine glass once more, his gaze directed coolly at the tent wall.

"Don't shout."

"Why, are you going to _silencio_ me?"

His father's hand moved to his cane, and Narcissa's flung out to stop him. She was sitting up very straight, her face tight, her hand clasped over the top of the cane to prevent the wand from being drawn.

"Draco," she said, her voice level, "we've heard there's going to be some trouble. We don't want you getting caught up in anything."

"Fine, I won't join any cults," he said coldly, unable to reign in his anger. "But I'm not just sitting here all night like an idiot."

He saw something flash between them, saw hesitation on his mother's face. His father's eyes darkened considerably. Narcissa rose to her feet and made her way across the tent towards him. He could see that she was about to offer an olive branch, and he remained quiet until she reached him.

"I won't go far."

"Where are you going?"

"Nott's," he answered quickly. "His tent is literally three down from ours."

"And what's he planning on doing?"

"I don't know, just sit and have a few drinks."

"He's not going out anywhere?"

"No – I don't know – if he is I won't go. Ok?"

He held her gaze, imploring her, and he could see he had won. Perhaps because she knew as well as he did that he hadn't been out for most of the summer. He'd made a few half-hearted efforts to meet up with Parkinson and Crabbe and Goyle, but he'd never really enjoyed their company as much as preferred it to solitude at Hogwarts. And Zabini was in France for the summer with his family, eliminating that option. He knew she hated seeing him slouch around the house by himself, and after another moment's hesitation she nodded.

"Alright. So you'll go to Nott's, and you'll come back here by midnight."

He opened his mouth to argue, but he could almost hear his father seething in the background, and he knew better than to push his luck. His mother retrieved her wand from the folds of her dress and flicked it at the tent flaps, returning them to their previous state.

"Be careful," she said as he turned to go. "Stay out of… Well."

He just nodded. He left before his father's stony silence erupted.

Outside the air was fresh and smelled like firework smoke and food. He wove his way through the crowds, his boots sinking into the churned, muddy ground, pushing past groups of people, pulling a box of cigarettes from his pocket as he went. Somewhere nearby someone was projecting a massive dancing leprechaun into the air, which was tossing handfuls of gold down. As soon as it hit the ground it disintegrated, but some people tried to catch them anyway. He tapped out a cigarette and lit it with a wave of his wand, holding it gently between his teeth.

Nott's tent really was only a few camps away, but he was relieved to see the other boy standing outside as he approached – he did not much fancy sitting down with Ralph Nott's red, earnest face. The other boy was about the same height as Draco but perhaps not as lithe-limbed and a little heavier set. His shoulders were constantly rounded, his head always looking downwards. He had slightly shaggy dark hair and a square face, a face which brightened considerably at the sight of Draco. He picked up a bag which sat at his feet and came to meet him.

"Thought you weren't coming. I was about to head off."

"Head off?"

"Yeah." Nott shrugged sheepishly. "My Dad turns in pretty early."

Draco shrugged, taking a long drag on his cigarette. Nott eyed it with interest, but Draco didn't bother offering one. He still wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to stay. He followed Nott's lead through the thick, laughing, singing, shouting crowds.

"It's crazy here, huh?" Nott threw back over his shoulder.

It seemed a fairly mundane statement, and Draco just nodded in response. He finished his cigarette and flicked it away into the mud, wrinkling his nose in distaste as a drunk witch shoved past him. He hoped that Nott was taking them somewhere with a little more space. They made their way through the thronging business of the main campsite, and he realised they were moving towards the forest. As they drew nearer to the treeline he picked out a fallen tree which had been sculpted into a bench. Draco frowned as Nott made a beeline for it and sat down, placing the bag on his knee.

"Here?" he said, looking around. The bench looked wet.

"Yeah," Nott said. "I know it's not inside – just Dad's at mine and… well, unless we can go to yours?"

That was, obviously, not an option. And so, sighing, Draco brought out his wand and siphoned off some of the dampness on the bench before sitting down warily. Nott looked distinctly relieved and took out two glasses and a bottle from the bag on his lap.

"What is it?"

"Firewhiskey."

"Yeah, I can see that," Draco smirked. "I mean what type?"

Nott's face was blank. Rolling his eyes, Draco reached for the bottle and studied the label. He could almost sense Nott's nervousness, and couldn't help but feel somewhat empowered. He recognised the brand as an expensive one, and inferred at once that it was probably from Ralph Nott's private collection rather than Theodore's own pocket. That was fine – it meant a better quality drink for himself, although he wasn't about to take any rap for it.

"Is it ok?"

He nodded, passed it back. Nott poured it out for them – slopping far too much into the glass, Draco noticed – and then handed him a glass.

"To the Irish, huh?"

"Krum's team let him down," Draco replied ruefully. He frowned at the brown liquid before pointing his wand at it and conjuring a couple of sleek ice cubes, swirling them about a couple of times, and finally taking a leisurely sip. "I would never play with a team that shit backing me up."

Nott agreed fervently, and they were able to relax into the easiness of talking about Quidditch. Quidditch was a great unifier, his father had always said. No matter what class, no matter what creed, everyone could bond over Quidditch. And, to his surprise, he found himself actually enjoying himself. Once he'd had a couple of firewhiskeys, Nott was far more interesting conversation. He was beginning to feel rather blurry when he noticed some commotion that was going on over at the main campsite – something that had been going on for some time, but which he only noticed when two girls a few years below him went sprinting past. The panic in their faces made him break off mid-sentence.

"What's going on?"

Nott, who had been listening to him ramble about Seekers, clearly also hadn't seemed to noticed the bustle. He blinked at him, and then looked past him at the campsite. His eyebrows lifted.

"Oh, right. Looks like it's kicking off."

"What's kicking off?"

Nott gave him an odd look. "You don't know? I thought you'd be straight in there."

"In there for what?"

Draco craned his neck to see. There was a crowd of black-clad people moving in a tight-knit group, and above them he could see three distant figures suspended limply in the air.

"Malfoy… they're Death Eaters."

Draco blanched, his glass freezing halfway up to his mouth. As soon as Nott said it, he could see it. He could make out the masks against the black hoods. Just as quickly he realised who the figures were and felt his stomach coil. Suddenly everything his parents had been saying made sense. Their furtive glances, their willingness to rot in the tent on the most exciting night of the Cup. He gripped the glass tightly, his mind racing. Because if he was spotted there, he would be expected to join in. He knew that instinctively. He had to stop himself from rising to his feet automatically.

"You getting in there?"

He looked quickly at Nott, who was eyeing him with his head cocked uncertainly on one side. It was as if the other boy was expecting Draco to take the lead and stride off into the fray. He refused to. And yet he was acutely aware of the strange situation he had managed to plant himself in – the sons of two separate Death Eaters, watching a Death Eater march, wondering who was going to make the first move. He felt a vivid aversion as soon as he looked at the group, at the three levitating figures. And not because they were Muggles.

"What do you think?"

"I promised I wouldn't," he said, unable to think of anything else.

"Promised?"

He shrugged, gulping down a little more of the firewhiskey, doing his best to seem nonchalant about it. But Nott suddenly had a strange expression on his face, and Draco narrowed his eyes in an attempt to ward off any unwanted scrutiny, but that wasn't what was going on. Nott's mouth was twisted, his nostrils flaring slightly.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. He concentrated fiercely on his firewhiskey, his movements a little more clumsy. "Just… Your mum didn't want you to get involved, right?"

Draco could only stare. Nott cleared his throat and downed the last of his firewhiskey.

"Doesn't matter."

"What?" That old, childish fear of being made fun of reared its ugly head in Draco's chest, and he felt a wave of anger follow it. "You have some kind of problem?"

Nott hesitated. "No. Just… Mine died. Unfortunately. A couple of months ago."

It was the second shock in a short amount of time, and Draco was suddenly speechless. He swallowed awkwardly. Nott was still staring at his glass, as if it had become the most interesting thing in the world. He reached for the firewhiskey, pouring a little more out.

"I'm sorry," Draco managed at last, after a stiff pause.

Nott waved his words away. His face was scrunched up, as if he had just sat on something extremely uncomfortable. Even as Draco searched for words to mend the situation the other boy stood up.

"I'm going to see what they're up to."

"They're just marching around," Draco said, trying to keep his tone jovial. "What's the point?"

"I don't know." Nott's jaw was tight. "Haven't you ever wanted to belong to something?"

He paused a beat, as if waiting for Draco's reaction. When he received nothing, he simply shrugged, picked up the bottle of firewhiskey, and headed off towards the main campsite. Draco watched until his figure melted into the hundreds of silhouettes darting here and there in panic. He sat there until his glass was empty, and then took another cigarette from his pocket and put it between his teeth, eyeing the fray uncertainly. The screams were growing in numbers and people were beginning to send great, flaming fireballs at the tents. He felt a twinge of concern for his parents, but their tent was in a more prestigious area, and he very much doubted that the Death Eaters would be targeting them.

He felt horribly exposed sitting out on the bench on his own, as if he were waiting for a Death Eater to come striding over and demand to know why he was not getting involved. Eventually he rose to his feet and slipped away into the forest, taking slow drags of smoke, allowing himself a few minutes more to himself before returning to his parents' tent. His mother would be worried, of course, but he couldn't help but feel suffocated when he was with them. The two of them were constantly opposites to one another, constantly at odds, and he was forever stuck between them. He had been more disappointed than he had cared to admit to himself when Zabini had said he would be in France all summer. There was only so much time he could spend with just Crabbe and Goyle before their stupidity drove him away, and Parkinson, although slightly better conversation, always flirted so much. If they weren't his only real friends – and even that word was stretching the concept – he felt sure he would have shaken them off long ago. But Hogwarts was a big place, particularly when you were all alone.

In the depths of the forest around him people were scurrying around, keeping together in close-knit groups, flinching at every shadow. Their fear was distant to him, as if he were watching the whole evening from the inside of a bubble. He felt so very indifferent to it all – he didn't want to get involved with the Death Eaters and their violent celebrations, but all the same he did not relish the idea of rescuing half-bloods from the fires. Instead he wandered through the trees, listening to the distant noise of the commotion, until a familiar voice reached his ears alongside a heavy thud.

"Ow!"

"Ron! Where are you? Oh, this is ridiculous…"

The high-pitched, forever bossy, forever interrupting voice broke through the air as clear as a bell, and abruptly a wand lit up not so far away. The dark trees were bathed in silvery light, blinding compared to the dimness his eyes had adjusted to. The first thing he saw was Granger's face, lit strangely by her wand, her hair huge and frizzy, as if she had recently been electrocuted. Her brow was furrowed in irritation as she waved her wand from side to side, until at last it fell on a ginger-haired body struggling to disentangle himself from the shrubbery.

"Tripped over a tree root," the heap said.

He flicked the cigarette butt away and, unable to pass up the opportunity, moved forwards to lean against a tree, just in sight of them. He could see Potter now, standing close to Granger, squinting through his round glasses. The sight of them was oddly comforting in its familiarity, even if he did feel a sting of jealousy alongside it.

"Well, with feet that size, hard not to," he said loudly, grinning as the three of them flinched in surprise.

Weasley's face tightened in anger at once and his ears turned a vibrant red. He scrambled up to his feet, scowling into the dark trees.

"Go fuck yourself, Malfoy," he snapped.

Draco arched an eyebrow. "Language, Weasley," he smirked. He hadn't known the ginger had it in him. He turned his gaze on Granger, who was watching him with a tight-lipped, wary stare, her illuminated wand held in front of her as if to defend herself. The sight of her there confused him slightly – why on earth were the three bumbling idiots doing wandering around in the forest anyway? Particularly with Death Eaters on a rampage. Their stupidity never failed to amaze him. He decided to drop them a hint.

"Hadn't you better be hurrying along, now? You wouldn't like _her_ spotted, would you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Granger lifted her chin defiantly.

He stared at her. Surely she couldn't be so dull? As if she thought that the Death Eaters didn't know who she was – they knew about all of them. Granger's name was forbidden in his own house, a sour reminder that a Mudblood had beaten him in every class last year. He jerked his head at the campsite, the dull roar of the crowd still audible.

"Granger, they're after _Muggles,"_ he said slowly, as if speaking to a child. "D'you want to be showing off your knickers in mid-air? Because, if you do, hang around… they're moving this way, and it would give us all a laugh."

Her face flushed red, and Potter moved forwards a little as if to stand in front of her.

"Hermione's a witch," he said sternly, as if that solved it all.

As if he thought that Granger being a witch would protect her. If anything it made her more of a target. How they couldn't see that – even now, after everything they had already faced in their magical little adventures – was beyond him.

"Have it your own way, Potter," he said. "If you think they can't spot a Mudblood, stay where you are."

"Watch your mouth!" Weasley snapped furiously.

But Granger was looking at him, hesitating, and he felt that he had managed to hit his point home. He looked back coolly, and for a fraction of a second, he found himself simply taking her in. He didn't usually get the chance to look at her for any great deal of time. And yet, there she was - her wild hair framing her small face, the freckles on her nose illuminated by the glow of her wand. Her serious eyes seemed to search his face, dark brown, very clear. X-ray eyes, he thought to himself musingly. Her lips tightened slightly, and she suddenly reached for Weasley's arm as he started forwards – Draco's hand moved to his pocket to rest on his wand – and pulled him back.

"Never mind, Ron," she muttered.

There was a sudden bang from nearby and, this time, all four of them jumped. Screams erupted and the sound of running feet on the forest floor reached his ears. Draco snorted, trying to shake off the anxiety that was beginning to creep up his spine.

"Scare easily, don't they?" he said, hoping they hadn't noticed him flinch. "I suppose your daddy told you all to hide? What's he up to – trying to rescue the Muggles?"

"Where're _your_ parents?" Potter retorted quickly. "Out there wearing masks, are they?"

"Well…"

Draco found himself hesitating. In all honesty, he didn't know. In his mind, he was sure that both of his parents were still locked up in the tent with their wine, trying to make stalling conversation over the sounds of the carnage. And yet, some small part of him wandered if his father had donned a mask and gone out to join them. After all, he had to maintain his reputation. He felt a shiver of revulsion and, realising he had paused for some time, twisted his face into a smirk.

"If they were, I wouldn't be likely to tell you, would I, Potter?"

"Oh, come on," Granger said coldly. "Let's go and find the others."

"Keep that busy head down, Granger," he called after them.

She shot a glare over her shoulder but did not stop, one boy in each hand as she towed them away.

"Come _on_ ," she muttered.

And then they were gone, and he was left standing there alone again. He watched the trees that had swallowed them up, somewhat startled at his own behaviour. Why had he spoken to them at all? More to the point, why had he _warned_ them? He wasn't supposed to care what they did or what happened to them. And he didn't, not really. But he couldn't help the fact that the idea of Death Eaters closing in around Granger's obnoxiously large head bothered him. He just wasn't sure why.

He turned and made his way back towards the edge of the trees, skirting around the front of the camp in an attempt to avoid the main pockets of Death Eaters. He had only just left the treeline when a burst of green light lit up the world and he felt his whole body jerk away in fright. He narrowed his eyes, squinting up into the brightness, and saw the light taking the form of a large, gaping skull. The shape of a snake appeared between its teeth and unwound, tongue flickering, and abruptly he felt a wave of intense discomfort roll over him. He tried to convince himself that it was the firewhiskey, but he knew that it wasn't. He quickened his pace, heading back to his camp, keeping to the edges of the site. He was afraid to run in case he aroused suspicion, afraid to walk slowly in case he was found. His mouth tasted dry and his palms clammy. He kept his eyes on the ground, kept one hand resting on the pocket that held his wand.

As he approached their tent – which, as he had expected, was completely untouched – he caught sight of a figure hovering uncertainly outside it, framed in orange-lit smoke. He allowed himself to break into a run as he neared her and she whirled around, her wand half-drawn.

"Draco!"

She snatched at him, pulled him into the tent with her arm around his shoulders. Her grip was tight, as if making sure he was real.

"Where have you been? It's late!" she said, words tumbling from her mouth in a stream of anxiety and relief.

"Sorry."

She jerked her wand at the tent entrance, allowing it to solidify, barricading them in. The noise was instantly muted. He looked around, and for one moment he thought that they were alone. And then something moved and he glanced over to see his father uncurling from his high-backed chair, leaning over to see who had entered. His eyes narrowed. Then, without saying a word, he leaned back in his chair once more and returned to his wine.

His mother was looking him over closely and he let her, knowing it would be easier to get it over with rather than protesting. She sniffed, shot him a warning glance, and he swore inwardly for not remembering to cleanse himself of the smell of smoke before entering. But she said nothing, and he could only assume that the evening had already gone so badly that she was happy to avoid all further confrontation she could. She shot a glance at the chair which held his father and then nodded at the curtain at the other side of the tent, through which his own room was.

"Go to bed," she said shortly. "We're leaving very early tomorrow morning."

He went without arguing. He didn't bother changing – instead he just lay down on his back on the plush bed that had been set up for him and listened to the muted sounds of screaming outside. It was finally beginning to die down. Perhaps the Death Eaters had had their fun. Perhaps they had seen the Mark and been just as scared as he.

And still, lying there in the dark, he couldn't help but wonder whether that serious-eyed girl had escaped.

 _ **Now**_

 _ **Six Months After the Battle of Hogwarts**_

He had been waiting in the rain for three hours now, and the cold had soaked through to his bones.

A water-repellent charm had managed to keep him mostly dry, even if it did falter after being cast for so long, but he was too tired to keep trying to warm himself. Instead, he crammed as much of his body into the dingy doorway as he could and watched either end of the alleyway, waiting for the short, stubby, hunched figure to appear out of the twilight. Knockturn Alley had a particular kind of creeping, ugly smell about it, and by now it had sunk into his clothes.

He was distracted briefly by a sharp twinge in his chest and shut his eyes against it, the pain doing nothing to improve his mood. It was accompanied by the now-familiar sickening vertigo and he put his hand against the cold, damp brick of the alleyway, desperately praying that he wasn't about to throw up in public. He had managed to avoid it so far and didn't plan on starting now. The world tilted once more and then finally, as he forced himself to breathe as deeply as possible, began to right itself. As usual the brief episode left behind a dull, throbbing headache, and the last of his patience disappeared.

Dragging his wand from his jacket, he threw a Patronus (the third of that hour) into the air with a violent stab. It twisted up towards the sky and disappeared into the thick rainclouds. And no sooner had he lowered his wand than a small, stocky man appeared at the end of the alleyway with a loud _crack._ Mundungus Fletcher, to be precise, carrying a cane and a cloak over his arm which looked extremely new and of a quality foreign to Fletcher's usual moth-eaten style. He was grinning widely, as if he had just won an unexpected bet. A look which quickly fell off his face when he caught sight of the tall, slender figure waiting in his doorway.

"M-Malfoy… I… Was our appointment today, was it?"

Draco unfolded himself slowly from the doorway, seething. He kept his wand drawn, with half a mind to curse Fletcher into next week.

"Fuck off, Fletcher," he said icily. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"Just… A family friend, you see, very ill–"

"I suppose my Patronus mumbled, did it?"

Fletcher inched forwards, fumbling in his pocket for his wand. Draco stood there for a moment longer in front of the door, daring the little man to push him aside, before slowly stepping clear. Short fingers waved a short wand clumsily at the lock and the thin door clicked open.

"You understand, Malfoy, it's been a difficult time, very emotional, of course…"

"Just _move_."

Fletcher scurried into the tiny apartment like a rat into a drainpipe. Draco picked up the suitcase waiting beside his feet and followed him in, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the state of the place. They had entered a tiny, cramped kitchen. Three separate ashtrays sat balanced precariously on different objects around the room, dishes were piled high in the sink, and the surfaces were covered with boxes of different shapes and sizes. Something in a large box on the floor was leaking a dark orange paste which smelled like gasoline over the tiles. Draco put his suitcase down gingerly, reluctant to let it touch the ground. His hands were dry and numb from the cold and he folded his arms tightly across his chest, wincing at the small stab of pain still lingering there.

"Fletcher!" he snapped.

The other man had disappeared into another room, and he heard a dull reply from somewhere deeper inside the flat. He sniffed, ran a hand through his damp hair in an attempt to keep it neatly pushed back. He felt stale and cracked, and his eyes were aching, and his head was now throbbing violently. The last thing he wanted was to be standing in this crappy kitchen. Although, a small, treacherous voice reminded him, it wasn't like he had anywhere else to go.

Fletcher finally reappeared from a dark doorway, a large wooden box in his hands. He balanced it on the side of the sink and began rooting through it hastily, not even daring to look up.

"If you screw me over like this one more time, I'm telling the fucking Aurors where your little hideout is."

"I must've mixed up the dates, Malfoy!" Fletcher said, shooting him a querulous grin. "No need to get nasty, no need…"

"Will you hurry the fuck up?"

"It's here, it's here."

Fletcher finally produced three small bottles from the depths of the box and held them out, all crammed into one shaking hand, his gaze stiffly averted. The bottles clinked together innocuously. Draco stared at them for a few long moments before lifting his icy gaze to Fletcher, who was practically sweating with anxiety. Doing his best to swallow down his rapidly boiling temper, he reached out and plucked the three bottles from Fletcher's grip.

"There had better be more in that box of yours."

"I had someone fall through for me, a contact… This was all I could–"

"You've got to be fucking joking," Draco spat. His hand had coiled around the bottles so tightly that he had to force himself to relax his grip, worried about breaking them. He slipped them into his inside jacket pocket, the familiar weight settling there.

"There's nothing I could do, I tried, I really did!"

"Then give me back my money. Now."

Fletcher had backed up against the kitchen counter, the box held in front of himself as if in defence. His eyes skittered from left to right and a wobbly, strained smirk hovered over his lips in a futile attempt at lightening the mood. He gave a small, jerky shake of his head. Draco felt his temper growing white hot.

"Fletcher. My money. _Now._ "

"Mr. Malfoy," Fletcher began helplessly. "The money went on your order and on… on facilities and expenses involved… I'm just waiting for the delivery, you see, and so…"

Draco had drawn his wand before he had even realised what his hands were doing. Fletcher clutched the box tighter as he raised it warningly.

"You had better produce some money from somewhere in this dingy little hovel or I'm going to blow your balls off."

"There isn't any! I don't have any, times have been tough on me recently."

"Find some."

"From where?"

" _Pull it out of your fucking arse!"_

A jolt of energy spat from the end of his wand and hit Fletcher's box – the other man dropped it in fright and a collection of items tumbled over the floor. A small tin box popped open and a stream of caterpillars began wriggling across the tiled floor; several bottles smashed and smoking liquid formed small puddles; a vial of bright orange petals splurged on the ground. Fletcher made a ducking movement, as if to try to save some of the stock. Draco's eyes hardened and he sent a more deliberate curse at the objects. A fiery jet hit them and something exploded in a small puff of blue smoke.

"Damn it, damn it!"

Fletcher darted back from the mess, swearing under his breath. He looked up, raising his hands, waiting for a blow.

"Look, look – there's nothing I can do. There's _nothing –_ Malfoy – please, just be reasonable. I'll chase the order. It'll be here by next week. Latest."

Draco glared at the little, pale-faced man quivering in front of him. He hadn't enjoyed violence for months, and yet he was sure that hexing the pug-faced, stubby criminal into oblivion would bring him nothing but joy in that moment. But there was nothing to be done. He could kill Fletcher on the spot, and yet if he did so he would be striking down his only dealer. He needed Fletcher, for all he hated him. He lowered his wand, his jaw tight with fury, and stowed it away in his jacket.

"One week," he snarled. "And if I don't get it by then, I'll blow your head off."

Fletcher nodded desperately, relief shining in his dizzy smile. Draco turned on his heel and stormed out with grateful nothings ringing in his ears, snatching up his suitcase on the way.

It had begun to rain even harder during their brief, heated discussion inside, and he was reminded of just how cold it was. He pulled his collar up against it, felt a familiar ache intensify in his chest. Quite suddenly, he felt bone weary. The night before had been difficult, to say the least. He closed his eyes for a few long seconds, letting himself give up for a while. Just for a little while… But his chest was hurting and his head was beginning to pound and he forced his hand into his inside pocket. He caught hold of one of the bottles, un-stoppered it and took a couple of thick gulps. At first the taste had made him wince – now he almost enjoyed it. Numbness settled slowly over him like a blanket and he dropped the bottle back into his pocket with a sigh.

Now, the only thing left was to find somewhere to go.

He hefted his suitcase and started walking, shoulders hunched against the rain, head bent to the floor. Water blurred and rippled eerily on the ground as he walked. The shimmering wasn't completely real, he knew. More a side effect of the potion. Pleasant in some ways, unnerving in others. He walked slowly. In all truth, he didn't know where he was hoping to find himself when he stopped. He didn't have a room to go back to tonight. He had been hoping to ask Fletcher for help, find out if there was somewhere more discreet offering cheaper places to stay, but their conversation had started sour and ended so badly that he hadn't even thought to mention it.

So, for now, all he could do was walk.

The soft haze the potion had induced helped to take his mind off the hopeless situation he had turned up in. Even though the rain somewhat punctured this cloud, it was enough to keep him from having to consider his options too closely. He had been forced to sleep rough more than he was able to recognise recently, and he knew somewhere deep in his gut that such an arrangement was the most likely outcome of the evening. He had a few places stowed away in the back of his mind which might just offer him some shelter. More recently, he had been staying in a small Muggle house on the outskirts of London, the owners of which were on holiday. But that morning the front door had opened and he had awoken to the sound of voices which announced their return. He had managed to set a glamour charm on them to confuse them long enough to pack and Disapparate, hoping they would put the rumpled bedsheets and missing food down to a random squatter. He wouldn't be able to return tonight, and he had long since run out of places to turn at times like this.

"A'right?"

He stopped, snapping out of his own thoughts and coming back to earth with a bump. He was somewhere in the vicinity of Knockturn Alley – his feet had carried him back towards the centre of the wizarding community. Sitting on a step which was sheltered from the rain by an overhanging door frame was a thin, reedy figure with straggling grey hair, wrapped in several layers of dirty clothing. He sat in a damp sleeping bag, the only possessions in sight a small, torn bag and a china teapot, which was currently levitating in the air, pouring steaming tea into a chipped cup. Beady blue eyes scuttled up and down, taking in Draco with expert precision. Draco relaxed, lowering the hand that had jerked towards his wand.

"Evening, Leroy," he said, crossing the alleyway to stand under the cover beside him. "How are you?"

"You know, you know," Leroy grumbled. He was rooting through his bag, and soon drew out a second dirty cup and a crumpled packet of broken biscuits. He waved them at Draco earnestly. "You wan one?"

Draco shook his head, suddenly becoming acutely aware of how empty his stomach felt. "Don't worry, I'm fine."

Leroy scoffed but didn't argue. He pulled a wand from his sleeping bag, broken in two places and held together with tape and sloppy charms, and stabbed it at the teapot, which dropped out of the air and settled on the ground like a spaceship landing.

"S'cold tonight," he announced, like a weather reporter. "Winter coming in. You want to be finding better places to be going. Don't want to be outside in this."

"What about you?" Draco retorted, folding his arms against the cold. "You're outside."

Leroy grinned a toothless smile, tapped his nose with one finger. "Ah, but I knows places to go."

Draco couldn't help but let out a short, hopeless laugh. He retrieved a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and tapped two free, offering one to Leroy. The old man seized it ravenously like a starving man falling on food, winking at Draco cheerily.

"Ah, there, there now, he looks after me!" he said, waving the cigarette in the air. "Who looks after me, eh?"

Draco smiled, putting the cigarette between his teeth. He focused on the end of it, but it took him a couple of tries to make it light. His mood, which had briefly lifted, dampened once more. He had been able to do the trick since their last year at Hogwarts, and had been rather proud of the admiration it drew him. But now even the small flicker of fire made his head pound once more and he had to close his eyes for a few long moments before the unsteadiness receded. When he opened them, he found Leroy studying him closely, sucking on the end of the cigarette like a lolly.

"You, now," he said darkly. "You need sorting out."

"Yeah, well," Draco muttered, "You let me know when you find someone who can do it."

Leroy sniffed and hung his head, cigarette in one hand and teacup in the other. They stayed there in companionable silence, the hiss of the rain all around them. The sky was very dark and the buildings reared high above them, so tall that the tops were almost out of sight. It was at times like this that London felt like an alien place, fortified against intruders, doors closed to strangers. Draco felt a sudden, odd nostalgia for Malfoy Manor. He hadn't seen it in over six months, and his last memories there were anything but pleasant. And yet still, in some ways he could just about remember it as the idyllic country house it had been in his youth. Green, open land had stretched everywhere around the house, like an unmarked map. For one wild moment he imagined Apparating there. But, of course, it was impossible.

He suddenly felt Leroy elbowing his leg insistently and looked down, blinking, torn from his memories. The old man's keen eyes were fixed on the end of the alleyway, his mouth firmly downturned.

"Them friends of yours?"

Draco followed his gaze. There, at the corner he had turned only a few minutes ago, were three figures emerging out of the gloom. He recognised a face just before it disappeared under a glossy black mask, saw cloak hoods being pulled up.

His stomach dropped away and he let the cigarette fall, every hair on end, every nerve suddenly jangling. With a sharp _crack_ Leroy was gone, leaving behind the teapot, still steaming steadily from its spout. The sight of it there alone was somewhat sad – Leroy never went anywhere without that teapot – but there wasn't time for Draco to retrieve it. He was already backing up, his hand slipping into his jacket to clutch his wand. The three figures had stepped out into the open now and were coming towards him. He looked from one to the next nervously, his chest growing tight.

"Nice night for a walk."

The voice was distorted beneath the mask but he knew it anyway. He stopped, gripping his suitcase tightly, his other hand still in his pocket around his wand. He had hoped for one stupid moment that they would simply pass on by. But no, of course not. The opportunity was too good to pass up for them.

"How's life then, Malfoy?" another distorted voice said lightly. "How's the other side treating you?"

"I heard they wouldn't take him," the first spoke up again. "I heard now he doesn't even have a side. He's just kind of floating around in the middle."

"That sounds about right," Draco said, doing his best to claw back his haughty sternness. He lifted his chin, his eyes narrowing. "I can tell you right now I have absolutely nothing worth taking. So–"

"Taking?" one of the masked figures said incredulously. "We're not here to mug you, for god's sake. What do you think this is, Malfoy?"

Draco tried to smirk. "A friendly reunion?"

One of them made a sudden move, and Draco dodged backwards at once. The curse flew past his face, but even as he evaded his path there was another rapid movement and something struck his arm. He let out a yelp as an unnerving coolness spread over his skin. He pulled his wand out, levelled it at the three of them, shaking his wet hair out of his face.

"Don't," he said, the warning punctured by his shaking voice. "Stay away from me."

"Please, Malfoy," the middle figure laughed. "Daddy's not here to talk you out of this one."

He took a step backwards, and then sent a stun in their general direction before turning on the spot. But instead of Disapparating his head only span violently – it was like he had jumped from something high and impacted hard with the ground. The sudden vertigo, coupled with a stab of pain in his chest, had him tumbling onto the ground. He caught himself awkwardly with one hand, twisted onto his back to face them, terrified to lose sight of them.

The figures were laughing, and they were moving closer to him, wands drawn. He scrambled backwards, sending a jinx their way which they blocked easily.

"Like it?" the tallest figure said. "The Aurors developed it – they've been using it to stop us from getting away. Only we figured it out. It's good, isn't it? Stops you from Disapparating – as I'm sure you've realised."

His heart thudded in panic. His blood was roaring in his ears. The sky was rapidly darkening as evening closed in around them, and he was all too aware of how far away they were from busy, lively areas of the city. They were secluded here. There was nobody coming to help him, no one who would even notice he was missing. He gripped his wand tightly, flitting desperately between his dwindling options as one of the masked faces came closer and leered down at him. He could just about make out the small, narrowed eyes glaring at him through the dark slits.

"So," a low voice said softly, "Do you remember what we do to traitors?"

He saw the wand lifting, the tip glowing red, and jerked into motion without wasting another moment on hesitation. He flung out his wand and the bricks and mortar making up the walls of the alleyway exploded inwards in a burst of powder and smoke – the paving stones around his feet echoed them, spraying the Death Eater leaning over him in a film of dust. He heard several jinxes whizzing his way but he was already on his feet and running by the time they hit where he had been. He sprinted for the mouth of the alleyway and rounded the corner as a chorus of angry voices rang after him.

It was lucky, in some roundabout kind of way, that he knew the area so well after all those nights spent out in the cold. He wove his way behind a small shop and over the fence of a small, grimy courtyard behind a block of crooked flats – he felt rather than saw the fence explode just after he cleared it, felt the heat of flames on the back of his neck. Pure adrenaline screamed in his veins and he pushed himself faster, careering out into the narrow street beyond. He barely had time to judge where he was before hexes were streaming after him – to his dismay, his pursuers were not giving up as easily as he hoped. His only option was to get as close as he could to Diagon Alley and hope that they would back off once the threat of being discovered became more immediate. His breathing was tight in his lungs and his chest was beginning to throb with a persistent, steadily growing pain. His initial energy was already beginning to fade. He suspected he had only a couple of minutes left before the pain grew too much to keep running.

He tried to ignore the hexes hissing past his face, ducking and weaving around as many corners as he possibly could. As he bolted past a dingy, boarded up shop he suddenly found himself looking at the end of Knockturn Alley, and the archway which led to Diagon – he could make it, they surely wouldn't follow him that far into the public eye. Panting, legs aching, chest searing with a steady burn, he launched himself towards it – and a heavy, smarting blow struck his shoulder and sent him crashing to the damp ground. He landed hard and agony speared into him as his wound punished him for his reckless impact, winding what little breath he had left. His vision blotted out as if hid by puddles of ink, and he blinked furiously as he tried to clear it. A dull throb was growing stronger somewhere on his forehead, and when he lifted his hand to touch it he felt warm stickiness.

 _Shit._

Desperation kicking in, he scrambled unsteadily to his knees just in time to meet the booted foot which slammed into his stomach. The world flipped on its head and when he was able to stop gasping dryly he found himself curled on the floor, his own mind screaming at him in a blind panic. _Why didn't you run? Why didn't you fucking run faster! Why, why!_ He tried to stop retching and gasping, tried to swallow down a couple of deep breaths, cracked his eyes open.

They had formed a rough circle around him, all breathing heavily, all with wands drawn. He wasn't sure where his own had gone – he had dropped it when he fell – but there was little point trying to summon it now. He knew he wouldn't be able to even if he tried. His head was spinning sickeningly. He managed to push himself up onto his elbow, pressed the heel of one hand against the hot, wet, painful area above his left eye.

"Got you."

He raised his head. The masks were expressionless, but he knew they were smiling. He had a sudden, sad wish that he had been able to die in a less pathetic way – maybe mid-battle at Hogwarts, surely a more honourable death than lying in a gutter in Knockturn Alley… He fastened his teeth over his lip as the tip of a wand was shoved towards his face, the end glowing threateningly. At least he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream first…

And then, like a puppet abruptly cut from the performance, one of them was lifted off his feet and flung limply away across the alleyway. The other two Death Eaters span about and Draco squinted helplessly through the blood streaming into his eye, wondering if he had lost it. He was just about able to make out a tall figure standing at the end of the alleyway, wand drawn, dramatically framed by the streetlights on Diagon Alley. The figure strode forwards and, like rats before a cat, the Death Eaters scattered. He turned to watch them go, bewildered at the sudden turn of events, saw them twisting into nothingness, one of them snatching hold of their fallen comrade as they went. And, just like that, they were gone and he was lying in the wet gutter of the alleyway clutching his head like a drunk who had just woken from a nightmare. He felt the rainwater eating through his blazer sleeve, felt the throbbing in his head and chest, felt the tightness of his lungs, and wondered at how many times he could stare Death straight in the face before it finally swallowed him up.

"Are you alright?"

He flinched, blinked up at the person who had by now hurried over to him. It was a she, he could finally make out – a young woman with ink black hair pulled back in a stern ponytail, a few curly strands escaping at the sides, and a serious, unsmiling face. Her cloak shifted as she knelt down and he recognised the Aurors robes she wore beneath it.

"Are you alright?" she said again, more loudly this time.

He nodded dumbly, still struggling to pull a deep breath into his shuddering chest. She reached out and pulled his hand away from his face, making him wince sharply.

 _"Episkey."_

A wand stabbed at him and he tensed for a moment, but then the pain in his head was suddenly receding to a half-hearted ache and he could feel the skin of his forehead knitting back together. The woman sat back on her heels, frowning at him, looking him up and down.

"Any other injuries?"

He shook his head. Her face twitched slightly in frustration – apparently she wasn't impressed by his lack of speech. She stood up, holding out a hand to pull him to his feet, but he declined her with a small shake of his head. He had not quite managed to pull himself together. His chest still hurt and he wanted nothing more than to remain sitting there in the gutter until the world just went away, but she clearly wasn't in any hurry to leave and he was beginning to realise how undignified his current position was. He looked around, held out a hand and silently _Accio'd_ his wand, which appeared out of the darkness on the other side of the alleyway. It seemed to be in one piece, and he slipped it carefully into his jacket before reaching for the wall and heaving himself up to his feet. The ground bucked treacherously and he had to keep one hand braced against the bricks, hoping he wasn't about to have a sudden and painful reintroduction to the ground.

"What's your name?"

He squinted at the stern-faced woman, who was still standing in front of him. Her arms were folded and she still held her wand, as if still prepared to use it, her head cocked questioningly to one side. He hesitated. Historically speaking, Aurors didn't tend to hold him in great admiration. But she didn't look like she was going to back off and he didn't have a lot of choice. Not answering her questions would get him in more trouble than just accommodating them for now. He sighed, brushed at his jacket and trousers.

"Malfoy."

"Draco Malfoy?" Her eyebrow quirked as he nodded. "I take it you don't get on with your old friends so well these days?"

He bit back a sharp retort, turning instead to look for his suitcase, which he caught sight of not far away. He summoned it and pulled his coat straight, but before he could duck past her she had held out her arm and blocked his way. He stopped, silently seething.

"I don't know who they were," he said flatly. "I haven't had any contact with them since the Battle."

"Indeed?" her tone indicated that she wasn't sold. "Not the slightest idea?"

He jerked one shoulder in a non-committal shrug. "I couldn't be sure."

He kept his eyes fixed on Diagon Alley, aware of her searching gaze drilling into him. She dropped her arm suddenly, and for a moment he thought she was going to let him leave. But she was only digging into her robes for a pocket book and pen, in which she made a few brief scribbles.

"You haven't registered to repeat your final year at Hogwarts, Malfoy?"

His stomach sank. "No," he muttered.

"May I ask what you _are_ doing?"

"Nothing much."

Her silence pressed him for a better answer, and he gritted his teeth against it. Of course he had received their owls, one a week almost, asking him to come to the Ministry when he was able for questioning. He had already responded to their main enquiries by owl, but apparently now there was more they wanted to know. There was always more. He had denied any involvement with the current attacks and said he was out of town.

"I'm looking for work," he said at last, as she cleared her throat pointedly. And then, because even he could take a joke sometimes, he added wryly, "I need a new job."

She smiled in a way which left her eyes cold. "The Ministry has been trying to contact you, as I'm sure you know. Perhaps now you're back in town you have time to answer a few questions for us?"

He grimaced, fixed his eyes on his suitcase. The headache was making a relentless come back. He still had not quite managed to let go of the wall. The prospect of finding somewhere to sleep that night was looking more and more daunting. He didn't know if he had the energy to go tramping around the usual haunts before finally giving up and heading for a 24-hour café. Half of them he wasn't even welcome in anyway.

"Can I take an address from you, Malfoy? Somewhere we can find you?"

Her tone left no room for arguments, and yet all he could do was scramble helplessly for an answer. He thought up several pathetic, obvious lies, and then decided he was just too tired. He was too fucking tired and dizzy and sick to try to lie about things anymore. So he gave up.

"I don't have one."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't have a place to stay. I'm… currently looking."

"May I ask where you were on your way to, then?"

He closed his eyes. The drizzling rain carried something coppery onto his lips and he remembered the blood coating his face. He raised his hand, which suddenly felt heavy as lead, and wiped at the mess.

"I don't know," he muttered. He retrieved his wand, pointed it gingerly at his head. _"Scourgify."_

A brief blast of cool air hit him. He wasn't sure that he had got it all, but continued on to his shirt instead. Eventually, when he felt he was more or less presentable, he replaced his wand, dragged a hand through his wet hair, and heaved his gaze up to meet the Auror's. She was looking at him with a strange frown on her face, pen poised above her pocket book.

"Am I to understand you have nowhere to go tonight?"

He couldn't bring himself to say it again. He nodded shortly instead. "Is that all?"

She flipped her pocket book closed and put it away before holding out her hand for him to shake. The bizarre, abrupt change in their conversation left him blinking at her dazedly before taking the offered greeting. She had a firm, business-like handshake which practically screamed Minstry for Magic.

"Hestia Jones," she said, indicating her robes. "Auror with the Ministry, as I'm sure you've guessed."

He wasn't sure what to do, so he just inclined his head slightly. She ran her calculating eye over him once more, and just as he was beginning to squirm under her stare she turned and reached out to put her hand on the small of his back, pulling him gently but firmly with her. He had no choice but to follow, and the sudden loss of the wall had his legs shaking. She slowed her pace and frustration curled his lip at the thought of her having to treat him like a child. Why could she not simply let him be? He didn't know what possible use they had for him now, nor why they wanted to speak to him so badly.

"Where are we going?" he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

"I may have a place for you to stay. An idea, of sorts, of mutual benefit to us both."

He didn't like the sound of that at all. Hestia suddenly lifted her hand and Disapparated – he was jerked forwards and then deposited sharply back down, just as before. His body jolted as if hit with an electric shock and he swore loudly as his chest seared in protest. She re-appeared almost immediately, wand drawn as if for a fight.

"What happened?"

"They caught me with that charm," he said, catching his breath. "I can't Apparate. And that hurt."

She waved her wand and he felt again that cold, trickling sensation. This time, when she took his arm again and twisted into nothingness, he followed.

They reappeared on a street corner opposite what looked like a rather nice park. The buildings were tall and ornate – one of the finer areas of London. He staggered on impact with the ground, furious at her steadying him yet again, and pulled free of her grip. He pushed his hair back, reaching half-heartedly for the pretence of dignity which had long since fallen away for that evening.

"We thought they had figured out how to use that. It's rather worrying they've got good enough at it to make it last a while now," Hestia was saying, apparently ignoring his sour mood. "It makes all of this a little harder."

She led him across the road, walking closely enough beside him to make a grab for him if he tried to Disapparate. Despite the friendly tone she had adopted he was all too clear of the fact that she still didn't trust of him. No one did, after all. He dragged himself after her, wrestling with the pain in his head and the incessant ache in his chest and the dampness of his clothes. He was so sick and tired of this life. A sudden spike in the ache caught his attention and he automatically lifted a hand to the area, felt the heat through his shirt. Despair sank into him and he scrabbled in his inside pocket for the bottle of amber liquid. He tried to turn away from Hestia, but he could feel her eyes on the back of his neck as he took a couple of swift gulps. He hid the bottle away again, trying to will the pain away, carefully avoiding her gaze.

 _Please, not now… Please just fuck off for now…_

"Is there a problem, Malfoy?"

He shook his head, moved after her. They reached the pavement on the other side and she stepped up to the point where the walls of houses Numbered 11 and 13 joined. She reached out to pull him with her as he hesitated, confused – and then all at once there was another house standing there, the previously missing Number 12. Hestia climbed the marble steps, Draco at her heels, and pulled the doorbell with a swift, definite tug.

"Where are we?" Draco asked again, glancing around edgily.

"12 Grimmauld Place," Hestia threw over her shoulder.

The name was familiar, to say the least, although he could not quite place it at that moment. He could hear approaching footsteps and shifted his weight uncertainly from one foot to the other. He contemplated Disapparating on the spot, but it was hopeless – she would be after him in a moment. He wouldn't be able to go far in his current state, and she would be able to trace him within minutes. He would just have to hope that whatever she had in store for him wasn't going to take long. He wasn't sure how long he had until it hit.

The door suddenly flew open, making him flinch, and before him stood a tall, thin young man with short, bright orange hair. For one horrible moment he thought it was Ron Weasley – but no, it must be one of his several brothers. Still, the look of surprise and disgust that instantly rushed across the freckled face was identical as their eyes met.

"Hestia, hi," the man said, his gaze flickering between his two visitors. "They've already started, I think… What's going on?"

"Yes, I know, I'm afraid I was delayed," Hestia said in an extremely formal manner, stepping into the house. "Are they in the kitchen?"

The Weasley stood aside, nodding in response to her question, his eyes fixed on Draco. Draco pulled himself up to his full height – there wasn't much between them – and returned his stare coolly, his face settling into its familiar glare. He didn't offer a greeting and was not met with one. Instead he followed Hestia down the corridor, narrowly avoiding tripping on the garish trolls leg which was standing by the front door, trying to shake the disturbing feeling that this was not the only unexpected reunion he was to have that evening.

The building seemed to be very old. The wallpaper was extremely ornate but flaking from the walls, the floor covered in heavily worn, thick rugs. It was a gloomy kind of place. He could hear the hum of conversation through one of the thick wooden doors they passed, could hear footsteps hurrying back and forth on the floor above. They passed a large sweeping set of black mahogany stairs, near which a great many pairs of shoes were haphazardly piled, and through a more understated doorway which opened onto a narrow set of stairs. Draco glanced over his shoulder before following Hestia down them. The Weasley had shut the door and was watching them, his arms folded defensively, his eyes narrowed.

The slim stairwell was somewhat difficult to navigate considering the pounding in his head and his steadily aching chest. He passed his suitcase from one hand to the other, trying to decide which angle was best to take, grumbling under his breath at the effort of the whole thing. He still had half a mind to make a dash for it, but knew he wouldn't be able to get far. He had a strong suspicion that any indication of unwillingness to cooperate now would end in some kind of arrest – although at least a night in a holding cell at the Ministry would mean a night spent indoors. The narrow staircase ended in another door, which Hestia rapped sharply on before opening without waiting for an answer. A bubble of voices became suddenly audible and then, just as quickly, fell silent at the newcomer.

"Evening," Hestia said brightly. She moved into the room, holding the door open expectantly, waiting for Draco to follow. "Sorry I'm late. I ran into someone on the way."

And even before he entered the room, he somehow knew. He felt his stomach curling into a tight ball of disbelief and ice, straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin, and met the startled, bespectacled gaze of Harry Potter as if they were back in the Great Hall. He wanted to say something smarting and intelligent and provocative, but his lips wouldn't work and his brain offered nothing up. So he remained silent, hovering in the doorway behind Hestia like an uninvited ghost.

Potter, who had been sitting at the end of a long wooden table, half-rose out of his seat, and then seemed to think better of it and sat down again. His eyebrows had climbed high up his forehead and he looked quickly between Hestia and his unexpected guest, in a very good imitation of the Weasley brother upstairs, as if hoping to telepathically glean some information. He was not alone – to his left was yet another ginger-haired man and to his right, again to Draco's surprise, sat Professor McGonagall, her hands folded primly before her on the table. She looked not the least bit surprised to see him, but then his old Transfiguration teacher had never looked surprised in all the six years he had known her. Beside her was a man Draco did not recognise, but who had instantly drawn his wand and laid it warningly on the table, and so Draco felt justified in immediately disliking him.

"Good evening, Hestia," McGonagall spoke up, apparently the first to recover and break the awkward silence that had descended. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Thanks, Minerva."

McGonagall waved her wand and a teapot sitting in the middle of the table jumped up on several spindly porcelain legs, ran across the table, and tipped its contents into a waiting mug. Piercing, shrewd blue eyes turned on Draco.

"Mr. Malfoy?"

He almost winced at the way in which the others looked at him, the incredulity with which they regarded him in their house. He wanted to explain that he had not even wanted to come, that he had been made to come, and they should all be staring daggers at Hestia bloody Jones instead. He pressed his lips together and shook his head.

"Nonsense," she said, and the teapot ran over to pour another mug of tea.

Hestia had gone to sit beside the ginger man, who Draco with a sinking feeling suddenly recognised as Arthur Weasley, and was already picking up her mug and taking a swig from it. She waved at the seat beside her.

"Sit down, Malfoy."

He shifted his grip on the suitcase, looked back at Potter. Those irritatingly earnest green eyes were still staring at him, and he again considered running. But he could not, and it was painfully obvious by now that he was here at Hestia's request, and therefore her prisoner. He ran his tongue across his dry lips and then, unable to stall any longer, crossed to the chair Hestia had indicated and slumped down into it.

The only upshot of the situation was that his current position was closest to the roaring fire in the huge fireplace at the end of the table, and the heat was blissfully welcome after the chill of the London night. He shivered automatically, suddenly aware of the fact that his coat was soaked, as was his hair, and that his hands were freezing. Against his better judgement he reached for the tea, offering McGonagall a short, curt nod. The warm china met his hands and he couldn't help but enjoy the heat.

"Sorry for the gatecrasher," Hestia said, reaching for a plate of cookies which had been placed in the centre of the table. "It was fairly unavoidable, I'm afraid. Have I missed much?"

Potter cleared his throat, apparently finally recovering. "We were just talking about how the rebuilding of Hogwarts is coming along," he said. "More and more of the school is becoming useable every day, and more people keep volunteering to help – we should be able to move the House Elves back in soon, rather than having them stay in the tents in the grounds."

"I was about to bring up our recent efforts with our ongoing efforts with the Ministry," Arthur Weasley spoke up, his voice distinctly cold. "But, perhaps, now is not quite the right time."

"Well," Hestia said, through a mouthful of cookie, "My guest is not entirely unrelated to that."

Draco glanced at her quickly as, once again, all eyes turned on him. The man he didn't know, but who he could now see was wearing Auror robes, tapped his fingers on his wand.

"Maybe that's a good place to start for now," he suggested coolly.

"Yes," Hestia nodded. She looked pointedly at Draco, her eyebrows arched expectantly. "Care to explain how I ran into you tonight, Malfoy?"

He looked at her, unable to believe that she had just asked him to recount being harassed by his former allies in front of his former enemies. He wasn't sure he could stand the agony of it. She waited and then, when it became apparent he was not going to answer, spoke up instead.

"Well – I was on my way here. Had to swing by Ulrich's in Knockturn Alley; he said he might have some information that could help us. He didn't. But on my way out, I came across Malfoy here having a… should we say, disagreement with some old friends."

Draco would have loved nothing more than for the earth to open up and swallow him. He kept his eyes fixed on his tea, his jaw clenching tightly in an attempt to bite back the sharp retort on the end of his tongue. He had the horrible feeling that Hestia was immensely enjoying his discomfort. She continued her story, sipping briefly at her tea.

"They ran when they saw me, of course. All wearing their masks, so I didn't get a chance to identify any of them. I was rather hoping for some help with that, but…"

"I told you I didn't see them," he said before he could stop himself. He raised his gaze, scowling at her as she paused. "I _said_ I haven't had contact with them since the trouble. I don't know why I'm here."

"You're telling me you don't recognise _any_ of your old friends, masks or no masks?" she pressed, her tone remaining frank and practical.

"That's really the point of masks."

"Are you aware of what's currently happening in the wizarding community?" the other Auror spoke up. "There have been several attacks just this week on both magical and non-magical peoples. I suppose your lot wouldn't have anything to do with those?"

Draco huffed shortly, finally managing to summon up a sneer. "Oh, yeah. I'm very popular with them these days, don't you know?"

"And I suppose you also don't know anything about the Ministry's repeated attempts to contact you regarding these issues?"

Draco took a sip of his tea, his gaze fixed rigidly on the table-top.

"And so we come to now," Hestia said brightly, piercing the sizzling tension that had been building. "I have – although by accident – managed to locate our rouge contact. Perhaps someone who knows the most about the Death Eaters, and the only member who has a reason to help us with our investigations. _And_ it so happens he is in need of a place to stay."

And suddenly it all became horribly crystal clear. Draco's head snapped up and once more he found his own horror reflected back at him in Potter's stricken gaze. Clearly he, too, had just twigged what was going on. Draco shoved his chair back from the table at once, his hands curling into fists.

"Look," he said, a little more fiercely than he meant to, "I don't need your fucking charity, alright? I'll find somewhere."

"Well, start looking now," the other Auror said quickly, his hand curling around his wand. "Because you're not leaving here without giving us a real contact address to find you. And if you give us a fake one, or if you refuse to give us anything, we'll have all the reason we need to arrest you."

Draco cast about desperately, already on his feet. He lit upon something, a half-hearted idea he'd had some weeks back.

"Theodore Nott. I'll contact him. Happy?"

The quick glance shared between his jury indicated otherwise. He looked at Hestia, gripping his suitcase.

"What?" he demanded. "What now?"

"Nothing," Hestia said lightly. "Only that Nott's registered address has been abandoned for some time now. When was the last time you had contact with him?"

He had no idea. He had glimpsed him briefly in the confusion of the Battle of Hogwarts, but they had not spoken. He hadn't spoken to anyone that day. And once he had been sent back to finish his school year, considered too unworthy and untrustworthy to remain at the Manor, he had not heard from anyone associated with Voldemort. Which had suited him fine – he had been only too happy to be cast out like a rotten fruit. He sighed, raking his hand through his hair. They were waiting. Everywhere he turned, they were waiting with a way to corner him.

"I don't… the Battle, probably. I know it's empty, I just… I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

"I see," Hestia said. "It's just that Nott is one of our prime suspects for these attacks."

He stared at her. "Nott? No, don't be ridiculous," he snorted, shaking his head. "He… He was never a leader. He just did what he was told. He would never…"

He broke off, aware that his pledges of Nott's well-meaning spirit would fall on deaf ears. His chest burned suddenly, a reminder of the rapidly worsening pain lurking there, and he was forced to put his suitcase down. He let himself put a hand on the table, unable to help catching his breath, hoping it would pass quickly. Hestia was speaking again, still in that cool, practical tone.

"You have two options, Malfoy. Either you can remain here – Potter has kindly offered up his home to many refugees from this conflict, which might I remind you, you made several poor choices during. Or you can come with me now and we'll sign you into a holding cell at the Ministry, and you can wait there until we're ready to question you on your reluctance to cooperate with us."

"And if you still refuse to offer your services," the other Auror added, "We'll find a nice, cosy room for you in Azkaban. How does that sound?"

Draco looked sharply at him, seething at the smile quirking at the man's face. Fear jabbed into him, but he shook it off forcefully. They couldn't just send him to Azkaban for no reason – the place was barely even functional again since it had been half-destroyed during the war. He considered calling him on his bluff, saying that Azkaban would do just fine, but he didn't like the way the Auror was looking at him. Like he was a diseased thing that had climbed out of the gutters and should be quickly and efficiently swept back in.

"Mr. Malfoy."

McGonagall was looking at him soberly, although hers was perhaps the least unkind face at the table at that moment. She made a small gesture.

"I believe you have some blood on your face."

She seemed to be packing more into her words than was immediately obvious, and he made a point of not looking into her statement. He rubbed furiously at his cheek with the back of his hand, felt dried blood crumble against his skin. Swearing under his breath, hit with the shame of their staring eyes riveted on him, he turned his back on them and stared at the leaping flames in the fireplace. His mind was a roaring blank and his chest was now throbbing violently. Knowing that if he insisted on ignoring it he would be punished, he thrust his hand into his pocket and managed to drink a little of the contents of the bottle there. They must have noticed, but none of them commented as he returned the glass to his pocket. It still wasn't quite enough – the relief wasn't as immediate or as strong as before, and the pain remained.

"Whether you like it or not, Mr. Malfoy, you seem to have made yourself an enemy of rather a lot of people," McGonagall continued conversationally. "Some of them very dangerous. I cannot speak for Hestia or Marcus, but I can tell you that Grimmauld Place is a safe place for people such as yourself."

 _People such as yourself._ Of course, what she meant was people who had nothing and no one.

"There's loads of people here," Potter's voice suddenly spoke up. "Some are staying here while they're working on Hogwarts, there's some people from the Order, there're Aurors in and out all the time – people from our year. It's not…"

He broke off, and Draco chanced a brief glance over his shoulder, still wrestling with the urge to make a run for the door. Potter looked distinctly uncomfortable, but he shrugged as if to lighten the conversation. He was just as scruffy as Draco remembered him being at Hogwarts. Last time they had seen each other must have been somewhere in the fray at the Battle, both of them streaked with dust and blood and screaming spells. It was strange seeing him sitting in a warm kitchen with a cup of tea, wearing jeans and thick flannel shirt, his glasses reflecting the glow of the fire. Strange to be in such an environment with him.

"… It wouldn't be just you and me," Potter finished at last, making an effort to laugh. "Actually, a room just became free on the top floor. I was going to let Ron take it, but we can share for a little longer…"

He trailed off, glancing around the table for back-up. Mr. Weasley looked extremely disgruntled, but McGonagall and Hestia were both nodding, as if the arrangement were the most natural thing in the world. Draco couldn't bear it – the way Potter was being so fucking _nice,_ making a noble effort… Jesus, he would have preferred to be hurling insults back and forth. He looked pointedly at the fire again, his lips frozen shut. He felt too drained of energy to fight with them, or with himself. The recent run-in with the Death Eaters seemed to have triggered his condition to abruptly worsen, and he knew that he only had a limited amount of time left before it hit.

"Well," Hestia said, breaking the on-going silence. "That's decided then, Malfoy?"

There was no way out. The humiliation of not only being exposed as homeless, but also of having to rely on Potter for help was perhaps the worst end to the night he could have imagined. He would almost have preferred to go with the Death Eaters. Almost.

"Harry, would you mind showing him where the room is?" Hestia asked, more politely now. "Only there's probably a few things we were meant to discuss in private. We'll wait until you get back."

"Aren't you going to interrogate me?" Draco asked as scathingly as he could.

"Well, seeing as we know where you'll be now, there's no rush is there?" the other Auror said coolly.

Potter had pushed his chair back and stood up, apparently happy to pretend that he was completely at ease with the arrangement. He moved around the table and opened the door to the stairs, waited for Draco to join him. Slowly, with the feeling of a man walking into his own prison cell, Draco picked up his suitcase again and followed him. Part of him felt a small hint of relief at the thought of being able to at least hide away in some room somewhere for a while. He could figure out exactly what he was going to do in the morning, when his head was less painful.

"And Malfoy?"

He turned, one hand on the door. The other Auror was watching him, returning his wand slowly to the folds of his robes, his eyes narrowed with a stern, clear warning.

"If you cause any trouble here, we won't tolerate it. Understand?"

Draco could almost laugh. First they forced him to stay, and then they threatened to throw him out. He let a cold sneer spread over his face before turning his back and following Potter up the stairs, letting the door slam shut behind him. He kept his eyes on Potter's trainers and one hand on the banister as they climbed the stairs. A wave of dizziness ran through him as they reached the top, and he was sharply reminded of how little time he had. Potter had said the top floor – he could only hope that there were not too many storeys to this house.

They started on the next set of stairs. On the wall were a series of wooden plaques, on which a series of decorations had once been mounted – he could see the holes where nails had been driven in – but had now been removed. The stairs themselves were sweeping and wide, and he tried to keep close to the wall. Potter reached the top and waited for him to catch up before continuing up the next set – the landing they reached had three doors leading off from it, two shut. One was ajar, offering a glimpse into a small, cramped bathroom. Potter waved a hand at one of the doors as they continued upwards. From behind it came the low hum of several voices, a loud, tinkling laugh.

"Downstairs there's the kitchen and the dining room – we usually hang out in there. We managed to get a TV working, although you probably wouldn't be interested in that. Most people are sharing the rest of the rooms."

Draco grunted in response, not sure what Potter was getting at. Maybe he was just trying to fill in the awkward silence. As they reached the next landing and were met with yet another flight of stairs and a series of more doors, he wondered just how many people were staying here. A lot, if the number of rooms and the various voices were anything to go by. They climbed the next set of stairs to another landing, which was a little smaller than the last, and on which Potter pointed out a larger bathroom.

"We all just share it," he said with an effort at a smile. "So you'll want to be quick in the mornings."

They crossed the landing and started on more stairs. Draco's chest was beginning to throb violently again and he came to a halt halfway up as dark spots began to swarm before his eyes. He stayed completely still, willing them away, forcing himself to remember to breathe as this throat grew tight. He just had to keep putting one foot in front of the other – it couldn't possibly be much further. He put a hand on the wall, let his vision slowly flood back.

"Malfoy?"

Potter's voice was hesitant, careful – and yet not unkind. Almost the opposite. Which made Draco's pride scream. He drew himself up, forced himself onwards. He reached the top of the stairs where Potter was waiting, his head spinning treacherously, still clinging to the wall in an effort to stay grounded.

"Are you hurt?"

"No," he spat immediately, doing his best to fix Potter with a glare. "Just can't quite believe I'm actually being held prisoner here in this shithole."

His voice was shaking, and he was all too aware of how unconvincing he was. Potter was looking at him strangely, and his skin crawled under the stupid, do-gooder stare.

"Well, are we going or not?" he demanded brusquely, pushing himself off the wall and straightening up.

Potter sighed and turned away, heading to Draco's despair to another set of stairs. The floor they were currently on was much smaller than the previous ones, with only three doors leading off it, and the stairs leading on up were much narrower and less ornate. And as Draco reached for the banister, he heard voices from behind one of the doors – quiet, thoughtful, articulate… He heard a laugh, the thud of footsteps, and suddenly his heart lurched in his chest with a mixture of terror and hope. It drove him up the stairs faster than he thought possible, and as he made it to the top and into the shadows of the next floor he heard one of the doors below fly open. Bending his head, he could just make out a flash of long ginger hair – Ginny Weasley, of course. She darted downstairs and away, and behind her came a blonde girl with a much slower gait.

"… Tyrimoots are very much an endangered species," she was saying in a soft, sing-song voice. "It's a shame their magical properties make them so attractive to hunters."

"Luna," another voice said flatly, "In order to be endangered, they'd first have to _exist."_

And then she came into view, moving after the blonde girl. She had a book under her arm – god, of course she did – and her hair was loose and bushy and wild down her back. She was wearing jeans and a dark jumper, and as she went her hand came up and tried to tuck her hair back behind her ear, and he caught a momentary glimpse of the side of her face. He stood there, terrified she would look up and see him, terrified she wouldn't. He opened his mouth, and then closed it sharply. And then she was gone, hurrying down the stairs after the others, and Ginny's laughter died away.

"Malfoy?"

He flinched around. For one moment he had actually forgotten that Potter was even there. Furious with himself for being so careless, he raked a hand through his hair and dragged himself up the last couple of stairs, his mind racing.

They had apparently reached the final floor, and this landing only had two doors. The roof was slanted sharply – they were in the attic. Potter kicked one open and let it fall closed again.

"We're using that one for washing and storage and things – it's kind of a junk room. You'll be in here."

He pushed open the second door and stood back to let Draco in.

The room was very small. It had a single bed and an upturned box acting as a bedside cabinet and a rickety chest of drawers crammed in. Opposite the door was a low window with a view over the rooftops around them, and he could see the flickering lights of various houses in the dark night. The wallpaper was flaking off in great white pieces and the floorboards were bare and cracked. But as Draco entered it, he felt as if the whole place was a sigh of relief. Despite the circumstances, this was a place that, for now, he could breathe in. He put his suitcase down, hoping to relieve some of the pain in his chest.

Potter was hovering awkwardly in the doorway, and Draco crossed to the window to avoid looking at him. He surveyed the surrounding rooftops, the streetlamps far below. He tried to keep his shoulders straight, to shake off the air of sickness that Potter had clearly noticed. The other boy cleared his throat.

"Do you need anything? I mean, kitchen's off limits for a while – to everyone, not just you, but if you–"

"No."

Potter hesitated a moment longer. "Bathroom's on the third floor. And there's another on the first floor. I'm not sure who'll be around in the morning – people will be going out, have things on…"

"Fine."

The Golden Boy seemed to finally have run out of things to say. He lingered there for a couple more seconds, and then the creak of the door hinges announced his departure. Draco turned, forcing him self to speak up.

"Thanks anyway," he said stiffly, hardly able to get the words out. "For the prison cell."

He wasn't sure if he was trying to be funny or insulting. He had meant to sound at least civil. But Potter finally gave a wry smile and nodded before tugging the door closed.

As soon as he was gone, Draco threw a charm at the door to lock it and then _silencio'd_ the entire room. He had learned the hard way after the first few times it had happened that it was not a quiet experience. And it was coming, he could tell. He could feel it rising in his chest, feel the agony pulsing in his temples. He sat down unsteadily on the window sill and buried his head in his hands, hoping desperately that it would be quick.

He barely even had time to take off his coat before the wall of pain hit him, before his whole body seized around him and then automatically curled in on itself. There on the floorboards, shaking and whimpering, he tried his best not to scream. But of course he did. He always did, eventually.

* * *

 **Let me know if you liked it! I'll try to post the next chapters soon - still sorting out a couple of bits and pieces :)**

 **Thanks for reading.**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

* * *

 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

* * *

 ** _Now_**

Hermione wasn't sure what she had expected to happen at the end of the war. Part of her believed that she would simply go home for the holidays and come back to Hogwarts the following September, just as she always had done. As if everything would just come back together, like… well, magic. But, of course, real life was never that simple, and after the dizzying high of their victory came the heavy weight of everything they had lost, and everything that had been destroyed. After all, the Ministry was in ruins, Hogwarts itself had been burned to the ground, and both the wizarding and muggle communities had been shattered. There was so much to be done, and what had once been the Order of the Pheonix suddenly became something far more important than the small rebellion it had started out as.

Of course, she would be forced to take a gap year while Hogwarts was rebuilt – the library alone would be a nightmare to restock – and so with a vow to study as much as she could in her free time, she found that she had other work to throw herself in to. After all, Harry was – as usual – at the centre of everything, and therefore so was she. Due to their work during the second wizarding war she, along with other members of Dumbledore's Army, were offered first hand experience alongside working Aurors. Working in their chosen fields seemed a fair substitute for missing a year of education. Still, she wasn't sure if she fancied much more work out on the frontlines – instead, she was happy to help aid the Order with research from Grimmauld Place, which was quickly becoming a second home for most of Harry's closest friends, as well as remaining the Order's headquarters.

Although, at times like this, it felt an awful lot like being back at school.

"They're fantastically intelligent," Luna was saying airily as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "My father is sure that, with the right training, we may be able to encourage them to speak. Wouldn't that be a thing?"

"Luna…" Hermione bit back the harsh words teetering on her lips. With a deep breath, she shifted the weight of the books under her arm and managed a weary smile. "Please stop talking about Tyrimoots."

Ginny was grinning widely, clearly immensely enjoying the situation, but before Hermione could catch her she had turned on her heel and was pushing open the door to the upstairs drawing room. The hubbub of noise that met them was pleasantly warm and comforting, and Hermione let Luna go on talking dreamily about Tyrimoots as they joined the others. The room was large, and had apparently once been some kind of grand office. Now, it was not, to say the least. The large desk that had once stood in the centre of the room had been pushed back against the wall, and now offered a place for the cage of Ginny's Jigglypuff. Harry had somehow got hold of a couple of large sofas and armchairs, all mismatching, all different heights. They were angled in a vague circle towards the television, which was currently buzzing and showing nothing but grainy interference. A frustrated Seamus Finnigan crouched in front of it, bashing on it impatiently with his fist, egged on by Neville, Ron, Pavarti, Dean and someone, who were spread across the room. Across the room, near the large window, George was leafing through a book. He looked up as soon as they entered, and his eyes fixed on Hermione.

"Finally, where have you been! Hermione, I need a hand."

She groaned, covering the flicker of pride that someone needed her knowledge. "What, again? I've never even studied business, George."

"No, but you know. I know you know."

She made her way across the room towards him, and he cleared a space for her on the small table which stood beneath the window, covered with mugs and empty glasses.

"Look," he said, pushing a letter towards her and a scroll of parchment. "This is the net profit from last month, but this is the tax I've been charged. That's not right, is it?"

She took the papers from him. He held the book, which she now realised was the pay book, closer so that she could see. She scanned the pages, frowning. In reality, she didn't mind helping him. Although Fred and George had been incredibly successful at setting up the company together, it had become noticeably more difficult in the aftermath of the war when the work usually done by two became work for one. George, to his credit, was managing to keep on top of things, but she knew it was more of a struggle since he'd lost his twin. The shop itself had stood there, windows dark, doors locked, for a good few weeks after the funeral. At one point she'd thought he would just sell it, but then one day when she came downstairs he wasn't there, and he'd come home that night dusty from cleaning it up. A legacy, then, in some way.

"No," she said, eventually. "That is right. Because, look, you imported more of those Spinning Firecrackers from India, and that has a bigger tax than the stuff you import from Europe."

"Yeah, but that much?" he pressed, stabbing a finger at the books. "They're taking all my money!"

"That's how the Ministry works, George," Ron called from the sofa, a handful of crisps halfway to his mouth. "They take your money and they spend it all on fancy features for their offices. They put up a new fountain in the entrance hall just last week, Dad says."

"And St. Mungos, I suppose that's just a fancy feature too, Ron?" Hermione said pointedly.

He waved her words away, distracted by the exclamation from Seamus as he got the television working. The image on screen was flickering and blurry at times, but it was usually good enough for them to get through a movie. The magic-born people in the room perked up, looking with keen interest at the moving colours.

"So what're we watching?" Ginny asked, leaning forwards to see the screen better. "Can we see one of those old films?"

"No, no more old films," Seamus protested, rolling his eyes. "God, they're so boring. No, we're watching a new classic – like The Matrix!"

Hermione made her way over to one of the sofas as a hubbub of chatter started up. She didn't miss the way Ron tucked his legs in slightly, a wordless invitation for her to sit down with him, but pretended not to notice. Instead, she continued over to the other sofa and squeezed in beside Neville, placing her books in a neat pile by her feet. She took the one on the top and flipped it open to one of the pages she had marked earlier, glancing up at the screen. The others had not yet decided on a film, still arguing. She redirected her attention to the pages of the book, frowning as she re-read the series of incantations she had marked out.

"Hermione, you do realise that we're not actually at school anymore?" Ron spoke up, spreading out across the sofa once more. "There's no homework, what could you possibly be doing?"

"There are other reasons to read other than homework," she said, not lifting her eyes from the page.

"What _are_ you reading?" Neville asked, more quietly.

She turned the book over to show him the cover. "I'm checking on the laws about becoming an Animagus. I mean, it's just about as advanced as transfiguration can get, and they're really strict about who's allowed to practise it, but I just think it would be so interesting..."

"They'd let you do it, Hermione," Ginny said, shooting her a smile. "I think you, Ron and Harry pretty much get a free pass with that kind of thing. The Ministry kind of owes you, right?"

Hermione bristled. "No, not necessarily–"

"Do you get to choose what animal you become?" Seamus asked, looking up from his selection of DVDs. "What if you turned out to be something really crap, like a worm, or a bug or something?"

"Well, no," she pushed her hair back behind her ear, but it sprang back again. She put the book down at last, happy to finally be able to talk about something that interested her. "It's linked to your personality, so whatever animal you were would have to reflect yourself in some way."

"So yeah, a worm Seamus," Ron smirked.

"I heard it's supposed to be the same as your Patronus," George put in as Seamus threw a handful of crisps in Ron's direction. "But I've never been able to make a fully formed one, so I don't know."

"Not necessarily," Hermione shifted forwards, sitting up a little straighter. "Because a Patronus can change, but an Animagus' animal form can't."

"Your Patronus can change?" Pavarti said, arching an eyebrow and looking around at the others as if for confirmation. "How?"

"It's, like, if you go through some kind of personal shock," Ginny replied, frowning as she thought. "Like a big emotional event, or…"

Hermione glanced sideways at George, who had suddenly seemed to become very interested in the piece of paper he was looking at. His mouth was set in a hard line. She cleared her throat, hoping to draw the conversation away from the slightly tender topic – she knew he hadn't been able to produce a Patronus charm at all after Fred's death. He had asked her about it once, suspecting the reason for his lack of success, but she knew he didn't like to dwell on it.

"It's a lot of work though – learning to be an Animagi," she said, interrupting Ginny's train of thought. "One of the things you have to do is a hold a leaf of Mandrake in your mouth for a month… I just don't know when I'd have the time."

"Imagine if you became an ant," Ron said, grinning at Dean and reaching for one of the cans of fizzing juice on the coffee table. "Most useless animal ever."

"No – a sloth," Dean shot back. "A chicken."

"An elephant," Ginny said with a laugh. "Just really inconvenient."

Hermione settled back on the sofa once more, the conversation rolling on into uncharted territory. Neville seemed interested enough, so she angled the book slightly towards him and let him read over her shoulder. The others eventually managed to decide on a movie, after much deliberation, and she glanced up every now and again while she read. They turned off the lights to watch it, and the dimness made it harder for her to read, but she couldn't watch whatever they had settled on for long without getting bored.

Around an hour passed before she finally heard footsteps on the stairs, and straightened up a little just before the door inched open and Harry's messy black hair appeared. The light from the screen reflected off his glasses as he blinked into the dark room.

"You've only just finished?" Ron said blearily from the sofa. "How long was the meeting?"

Harry made his way in, closing the door softly behind him. He leaned against it, scrubbing a hand over the back of his head, looking at the flickering images rushing across the screen. He was frowning, as if he was deep in thought, his lips hovering just open as if turning words over in his head.

"Long," he said at last. "Couple of things came up."

"Everything ok?" Ginny asked, shifting around on the sofa to look at him.

"Yeah, yeah," Harry said. He hesitated, still messing distractedly with his hair.

"Ok, well, come and sit down then," Dean called. "There's still, like, half of this to go…"

"Yeah, I know…"

Harry made his way over to the space Ginny was making for him on the sofa. He sat down, but rather than settling back, placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forwards. Hermione, noting his trepidation, closed her book.

"What's going on, Harry?" she asked.

He looked at her, but still he held back. She frowned at him, trying to silently understand what he was holding back. It didn't seem to be anything too serious – he didn't look particularly worried. It was more a kind of apprehension, or reluctance, as if he were about to give them some disappointing news. But whatever was wrong was not coming through telepathically, and after a couple of seconds he sighed and glanced around.

"Who has the remote? Can we pause it for a sec – sorry, I know, there was just something that… came up, and you guys should probably know."

Amongst the grumbling and mutterings from Ron, George and Dean, Seamus retrieved the remote from beneath one of the sofas and paused the movie. Hermione dug out her wand and waved it at the lights, bringing them back on so that they didn't have to sit there in darkness. The others blinked in the sudden glare, unfolding themselves from their slouched positions across the chairs, sofas and floor.

"Is everything ok?" Ginny asked again, reaching for Harry's hand.

He nodded quickly, finally managing a smile. "Yeah, really, everything's fine, it's just… just some things that were decided during the meeting."

"Did Hestia have any news about the attacks?" Pavarti said, shifting forwards. "Have they arrested anyone?"

"They have a few suspects but they haven't really made any headway, no," Harry said. "But she said she'd be happy to run a few more training days with anyone who's interested – like an opportunity to shadow her and some of the other Aurors."

There were several appreciative noises from around the room. Harry glanced at Ginny, as if looking for backup, and then took a deep breath and looked at the rest of the room.

"So, I've got some news that I don't think you guys are going to be happy to hear, but it's on Hestia's orders."

"What?" Ron pressed. "Do we have to do some kind of exam for the Auror training?"

"Someone's going to be staying here for a little while," Harry said carefully. Hermione felt like he was picking his words cautiously in order to avoid saying whatever he needed to say for as long as possible. "It's become kind of unavoidable, because Hestia wants to keep tabs on him, and apparently there aren't any alternatives."

"Wait," George said sharply, leaning forwards. "Hold on, you don't… is this about _him?_ Is that why he showed up here?"

"Who?" Seamus said, with slightly more interest.

"It'll only be for a little bit," Harry continued earnestly. "And, honestly, I reckon he'll just keep to himself. He wasn't all that keen on the idea either."

" _Who?"_ Seamus repeated.

"Harry?" Hermione cocked her head, trying to unpick his words. She couldn't figure out who could be so bad – was he trying to tell them that someone they communally disliked was going to need to stay with them? And how did George seem to know? She looked quickly at him to find him shaking his head, his eyes hard.

"Who, Harry, who?" Seamus said, with increasing frustration. "Come on!"

Harry winced, as if he had just stepped on a splinter. Then, hesitantly, he spoke.

"Draco Malfoy."

A dead, hard silence closed over the room. Hermione stared at him. He was looking at her helplessly, as if silently begging her to back him up. She went over the name again in her head, wondering if she had misheard him, but the wide-eyed glances being exchanged across the room among the others told her that she hadn't. She swallowed hard, suddenly all too aware of her own heartbeat.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Ron said, his voice suddenly unforgivingly cold. "You can't be serious."

"He's on the run," Harry explained, shrugging feebly. "Apparently the remaining Death Eaters aren't thrilled that he quit and have been hunting him down – that's how Hestia found him. And she thinks that he might be able to help them with their investigation, so she needs to keep track of where he is."

"But why does he have to be here?" Neville said in a small, pleading tone. "Isn't there somewhere else…"

"Malfoy?" Ginny said, her eyes narrowing. "The guy who lives in a Manor, whose family fortune is bigger than all of ours put together, suddenly needs somewhere to stay?"

"You're really going to let him stay here?" Dean said darkly. "How do you know he's not here to spy on us? Or get inside information on the Ministry?"

"Draco fucking Malfoy," Seamus muttered.

Hermione let their words wash over her, still reeling from the news. She couldn't quite make herself understand it. He must be here, in the very same building as her, at that very moment. Her eyes drifted upwards towards the ceiling, and she found herself wondering which room he was in. What he was doing. God, she hadn't allowed herself to think of him in months. The last time she had seen him, they had been in the midst of a battle. He had flashed past her once or twice, but she hadn't had the opportunity to find him afterwards. She couldn't count the number of times she had sat and written out a letter to him and then crumpled up the parchment and thrown it away. She had always fallen just short of contacting him, just to see how he was, where he was… She wasn't even sure if he would have responded.

And now, as suddenly as he had gone, he had reappeared in her life.

"… needs somewhere," Harry was saying, and she forced herself to pay attention. "We can't just turn him out on the streets, can we?"

"Yes," Ron said coldly. "What the fuck do we owe Malfoy?"

"Nothing – look," Harry said, appealing to them all, hands held out in surrender. "As soon as we can move him on, we will. It's just for now. And Hestia's got her eye on him."

Hannah Abbot muttered something under her breath. George's arms were folded tightly. Neville looked white in the face, as if he had just seen a large, unpleasant spider.

"Anyway," Harry continued wearily, "He's in the attic room. Didn't think anyone would really want to share with him. If he causes any trouble, if anything happens, just let me know and we'll sort it out. But for now… For now that's just how it has to be."

"Jesus," Seamus smirked. "We've become a rehoming centre for abandoned Death Eaters. When did that happen?"

Dean laughed, and the atmosphere managed to brighten a little. Ron's face remained dark as thunder, and George shook his head once more before reaching for his parchment and returning to his work. Before long, Ginny had put the movie back on and the lights were off and they were distracted.

Hermione sat there for another half hour or so before excusing herself, claiming she was tired, and wanted to concentrate on her reading in her room for a while. She left the room in such a hurry that she almost forgot her books.

She dropped them off at her room on the way past and then took the stairs up to the attic two at a time. She was breathless when she reached the top and her hands were clammy and trembling at her sides. She wiped them on her jeans, trying to steady her breathing. The tiny attic corridor was dark, and the door to the attic room was shut. The lights inside were off. She stood there, listening to the thick silence, almost daring herself to knock. Eventually, her breath catching in her throat, she raised her fist and rapped softly on the wood.

She waited.

After a few moments she knocked again, and then again a minute or so later. She wondered if Harry had said the wrong room, but in truth there were no other single rooms which could have been used. She tried the doorknob, but the door refused to budge. He had locked it. She pulled out her wand and then returned it to her pocket, unable to justify simply letting herself in.

"Hello?" she said at last, trying to keep her voice low. "Draco?"

Her words were met with nothing but the voiceless, unremitting door. She wrung her hands together, wet her lips.

"Draco? Are you there?"

Still, nothing but silence. She stood there in the dark corridor for a few minutes longer, wrestling with herself. Because even though she hadn't spoken to him in months, and even though she had no idea what either of them were supposed to say, she knew beyond all doubt that she wanted to see him. As soon as Harry had said his name, she had known that she had to see him. And yet the room was quiet and dark, and there was no answering voice there to greet her.

She stayed a while longer, until she heard voices below. Only then did she retreat and shut herself back into the room she shared with Ginny, Luna and Hannah, her stomach heavy with disappointment. She climbed into bed before they got back, but she spent the whole night wide awake and staring up at the ceiling. She wondered if he was doing the same.

* * *

 ** _Then_**

 ** _Fourth Year_**

"Miss Granger," called McGonagall as the class began to pack up their books. "May I see you, please?"

She hefted her bag onto her shoulder as she slipped out from behind her desk and headed up to the teacher's desk, the other students filing out into the corridor with a gentle buzz of chatter around her. The door swung shut, cutting off the gentle roar, and she slowed to a halt beside the teacher's desk where McGonagall was shuffling papers around. The older woman looked at her student over her glasses, her lips pursed.

"I understand you have a free period before dinner, correct?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Then I wonder if I may ask a favour of you."

Hermione blanched at this. The enquiry was incredibly casual and direct, as if thrown out between two friends over a couple of Butterbeers. She nodded dumbly, watching as McGonagall packed her quill and books away into her bag and swept her wand to usher some textbooks up onto a nearby shelf.

"I have an urgent meeting with Professor Dumbledore regarding the dormitory arrangements for the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students. Apparently some students have been crossing between the dormitories after hours, and something really must be done about it. I wonder if you could oversee detention for the following hour."

At this, Hermione's mouth fell open. She stuttered a couple of times before McGonagall smiled bemusedly, straightening up from her desk.

"Come now, Miss Granger, I'm sure we both know that you're a sure candidate for Gryffindor House Prefect next year, so you'll be doing jobs such as this all the time in a matter of months. You're completely responsible and conscientious enough to handle it. Now, if you'd rather I call someone else down…"

"No, no," Hermione managed at last, getting over her initial surprise. "Of course, Professor, I'll do it."

"Thank you," Professor McGonagall said, lifting her bag from the desk. "There's only one student to watch in any case. You can ask him to sharpen the quills in that box – _without_ magic, might I add – and he need only stay until dinner."

Hermione nodded, following her teacher's gesture to a large wooden box on the front desk. McGonagall stepped out from behind the desk and moved towards the classroom door, weaving her way through the smaller student desks.

"You may, of course, sit there," she called over her shoulder, indicating her own desk. "And if he gives you any trouble, please inform me at once."

Hermione nodded dumbly, watching until her teacher had swept out into the corridor with a rustle of fabric. Letting her bag drop to her feet, she gazed down at the padded, curved chair which stood behind McGonagall's desk before dropping into it slowly, running her hands along its smooth, worn arms. From her current seat she could oversee the entire room, and she had an odd sensation of how McGonagall must see the class. She placed her hands on the thick, glossy desk, eyeing the delicate ink well to her right and the stack of books to her left. She had only read two of them – the other two she had not even heard of. Her fingers itched to leaf through them, but she had not been given permission and was not brave enough to delve into her teacher's private collection. Instead, she settled back in the chair. She had often considered becoming a teacher, mainly due to the options it opened up for her to continue her studies and be paid for it. She felt she was being granted a strange little preview of what such a career would entail.

She was still envisioning herself sweeping across the front of the classroom, pointing out various incantations and gestures to an attentive class of round-eyed pupils, when the door swung open and a distinctly familiar figure slouched into the room, hands buried deep in his pockets, a glare ready on his face. At which point her imagination was cut off with a sudden jolt and she was instead filled with a heavy, thick despair.

The student standing in the doorway had white blonde hair scraped tightly back against his scalp in a fashion that resembled the head of an otter, or so she had always thought. He had grown several inches from last year and was now obviously taller than her, and more slender and elegant than both Ron and Harry's more awkward, gangly frames. His face was twisted into a sneer that was instantly and horribly familiar. And the last time she had seen him, he had been lurking in the woods around the Quidditch World Cup camp, and a livid green sign of the Death Eaters had been floating in the air above them.

It could only have been Draco Malfoy.

The expression that dawned on his face as he laid eyes on her seemed to sum up exactly the way she felt herself, and he scowled and slammed the door shut behind him.

"You've got to be fucking joking."

She lifted her chin defiantly, feeling somewhat empowered by her position at the front desk. "Apparently not. McGonagall asked me to oversee detention, so you might as well–"

"Oversee detention?" he repeated mockingly, sneering at her. "Oh, I bet you're loving this, aren't you Granger? Swotty fucking Granger, so smart that all the teachers ask her to lead the class."

She felt her face flushing red and straightened her shoulders, trying desperately to appear in control of the situation. All she could rely on was the fact that she was acting on McGonagall's orders, so it wasn't really her fault if Draco left. She wasn't responsible. Still, she tried to appear confident, despite the heat she could feel in her cheeks.

"Sit down, Malfoy," she said coldly. "McGonagall said you had to sharpen those quills. And she said to tell her if you played up, so don't think I won't tell her if you try anything."

He shook his head, laughing icily. "As if. Not that I wouldn't just _love_ to spend my free time sitting here with _you,_ but I have better things to do."

"Fine, go!" she said, folding her arms. "Doesn't matter to me. You'll only have to come back later and have it with McGonagall."

He snorted, but he didn't leave. She waited, her arms folded, her heart beating fast in her throat. She wasn't used to speaking to him so directly. In fact, the only time she had reacted to his taunts in any way was when she had punched him on Buckbeak's execution day. But that day seemed very long ago now, and she didn't have the same fury in her, and he was much, much taller than her now. He looked at the door, as if about to leave, and then suddenly, to her surprise, groaned and sauntered over to one of the desks in the front row. He threw his bag onto the floor and sat down heavily, shoving his chair back from the desk.

"Fine," he snapped. "But only because I have Quidditch after dinner."

"Like I care," she retorted, pulling out a couple of scrolls of paper and some books. If she had to remain there for the next hour with him, she might as well get some work done. She set out the parchment and readied her quill, peering down at the assignments they had been set that day. She could feel Draco's eyes on her and glanced up sharply, tilting her elbow towards the quill box.

"Well? Better get on with it, hadn't you?" she said. "And she said no magic."

"Sorry, _Professor,"_ he smirked. "Are you going to discipline me?"

She stared fiercely at her homework, furious at the heat in her face. She heard him sniggering at her expense, but he did not take the conversation any further. She heard a soft scratching and sneaked a glance up to find that he was picking at one of the quills with the knife disinterestedly, his lip curled in distaste. Relieved, she flipped open one of her books and trailed her finger down the contents page. She sketched out a quick plan of her essay in her notebook, then hunched over her parchment and began scribbling an introduction. She was a third of the way through when the screech of chair legs on the floor jogged her and left a messy scrawl across her essay. Draco had shoved his chair back and was now lounging back with a wide grin on his face, enjoying her frustration.

"Problem, Granger?"

She scowled and snatched up her wand, waving it over the mistake to erase it.

"Oh, no, did I ruin your precious homework? Oh, the horror."

She pressed harder than necessary as she wrote, doing her best to simply ignore him. It was incredibly difficult. She worked best in quiet conditions, and she wished she could scurry off to her usual corner of the library. Why on earth had McGonagall asked her to watch over this particular detention? Why did it have to be Malfoy? She felt foolish for enjoying the feeling of sitting at her teacher's desk, stupidly thinking she was overseeing some nervous first year. And now she could barely focus on her homework, distinctly aware of Malfoy's laughing eyes on her. He hadn't even started sharpening the quills, simply stripping away the feathers of the first one he had picked up. She wasn't about to challenge him further on it. She wished he had just left and been disciplined properly later by McGonagall.

"Hey, Granger."

She stared at her parchment, gripping her quill tightly.

"Granger. Granger. Hey!"

" _What?"_ she snapped, lifting her head.

He was lolling back in his chair, balanced on the two back legs. A cold smirk had spread over his face. He flicked his hair back out of his face, looked her up and down.

"You know, they'll hold a ball this Christmas. The Yule Ball."

"So?"

"I was just wondering what you were planning on doing for it," he said nonchalantly. "You know, since nobody's going to ask you. Are you still going to go? It would be so _brave_ of you."

She knew her face was burning red, but she bit back any response and focused instead on her homework, the words blurring together on the page. She hated that he knew how to get at her. She hated that she cared.

A sudden tapping made her jump, and she looked up to see an eagle owl hovering just outside the window closest to the desk. She didn't recognise it – perhaps it was McGonagall's. She pushed her chair out and crossed the room to unlatch the window. The owl fluttered inside and landed on her offered arm, clicking its beak loudly, holding its wings out for balance.

The impact of chair legs on the stone floor drew her gaze and made the bird squawk. She looked up to find that Draco had sat bolt upright, no longer tilting back languidly in his chair, and was watching her with a narrowed stare.

"That's my owl," he said, the smirk finally gone from his voice.

She glanced again at the roll of parchment. It had no name on it – only the word 'Urgent' scrawled hastily across it. She turned it over to look for any other indication of the addressee, but found nothing. The owl took off once more, bored of its perch, and completed a lap of the room before settling on a high shelf and taking to preening itself. She returned to the desk, placed the parchment down next to her books.

"That's a letter for me, Granger, give it here."

"No."

His head cocked in disbelief, his eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

"You can have it afterwards," she said, savagely enjoying the moment of power. Finally, she felt as if she had regained control.

"Give me my fucking letter, you stupid Mudblood!"

The sting of his words was brief, and she pointedly returned her attention to her books. He let out a hiss of frustration and craned his neck to see, his hands balled into fists on the desk.

"What does it say? What does it say there?"

She didn't look up.

"Granger!"

"It says urgent," she said coolly. "But I'm sure whatever it is can wait until the hour is up."

"Are you fucking joking? Let me read it. Now!"

He suddenly pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, as if about to come over, but Hermione snatched up the parchment and met his gaze with an equally hostile stare.

"I _said_ , you'll have to wait."

He glared at her with so much venom that she was surprised she couldn't feel the sting of it. She held the parchment tightly, refusing to let up. His lips quirked slightly, his hard, pale face seeming almost a little whiter. He placed both hands on the desk, leaning forwards, lowering his voice.

"Look," he said. "I'm not about to go into details, but I need to see what's in that letter. I need to see now. It says urgent – I have a right to read it."

Her conscience was pulling at her, and she couldn't help but hesitate. He was right, and his tight-lipped face seemed genuine. But to give it to him now would be to give in, and she couldn't bear to do that. Not after he had spent so much time humiliating her. She held his gaze for a moment longer, and then sighed and began to unroll the parchment. He flinched forwards at once, taking a couple of steps towards the front desk.

"Hey, I didn't say you could read that!"

"I'm making an executive decision," she said flatly, stopping him in his tracks halfway there. "It's not addressed to anyone. So I'll read it and see if it's important, and if it is, you can have it. If it isn't, if it's some stupid prank, then you'll have to wait for it until the end of the hour."

He shook his head, his tongue caught between his teeth, his arms lifting to fold tightly across his chest. She was sure he was about to tell her how his father would be hearing about her within the day, but for once he kept quiet. His silvery, cold eyes tracked her hands as she unrolled the parchment and scanned the hastily scribbled words on the page. She read them, and then re-read them.

 _Draco,_

 _Your mother's condition has worsened. We've had to go to St. Mungo's. I'll write when we have more news._

 _Lucius._

Several things hit her at once, and strangely, the main thing to draw her attention was the fact that Draco's father signed as 'Lucius' rather than 'Dad' or 'father'. But that curiosity fell by the wayside once she re-read the main body of the letter, and she felt her stomach curl into an uncomfortable ball. She instantly regretted opening the letter, instantly wished she had just handed it over to him.

"What?" he pressed, still waiting impatiently a few feet away. "What is it?"

She scrambled for words for a couple of seconds before admitting defeat and simply holding out the letter. He strode forwards and snatched it out of her grip, span away from her to read it. Guilt made blood rise to her face for the millionth time within the last few minutes as she watched his hunched shoulders, his white-knuckled hands. He stood there for a long time with the letter, as if he had been asked to memorise it. Then, with a sudden, heavy sigh, he let his hands drop and his head fell back. His blank gaze was directed somewhere towards the ceiling, but she had the feeling that he wasn't really seeing much. The awkwardness of the situation weighed her down, and eventually she couldn't help but speak.

"Malfoy, listen, I'm sorry– "

"I don't need your pity, Granger," he said, his voice deadpan. "Just fuck off, ok?"

He made his way slowly back across the room to his own desk and sat down, the letter still gripped, now crumpled, in one hand. He sat there, his face strangely distanced and ashen, still staring numbly into the mid-distance. She searched for words, came up with nothing. She screamed at herself for taking the letter, for refusing to give it to him.

"Is it serious?" she found herself asking, and cringed at once.

He blinked, turned his eyes slowly on her. She felt as if a mask had just fallen down, revealing something raw and deep she had never seen in his face before. When he spoke his voice was very quiet, as if he were talking more to himself than to her.

"I suppose. He won't give me permission."

"Permission?"

He stared at the crumpled piece of paper, smoothed out one of the corners.

"To visit," he explained dully. "He'll say it's best if…"

He broke off, as if suddenly remembering who he was speaking to, and his face seemed to harden. He pushed a hand back through his hair, straightened his back, and then suddenly shoved the parchment into his pocket and picked up the nearest quill. She watched in silent disbelief as he began to sharpen it with slow, careful strokes, concentration etched in every line of his face. Guilt rose up in her like a tide and she suddenly found herself standing up, the chair skittering backwards away from her. Moving with renewed purpose and determination, she walked across the room to the fireplace, which was built into the very back wall, half obscured by the blackboard. She inspected the various items standing on it, passed by a clock, a couple of piles of books, a candle holder… finally, she came across a small metal box. Her heart leaping, she took it from its place and opened the lid. She was met with a supply of fine green dust, glittering softly in the half-light.

She turned to find Malfoy watching her with a perplexed frown on his face. The expression was so unlike his usual sneer that she almost laughed. She held up the box, jerking her head at the fireplace.

"You could go now, maybe?"

He stood, made his way over to her slowly. His eyes flickered between the box and her face, as if he expected her to suddenly throw the powder to the floor and laugh in his face.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You could go to St. Mungo's," she said, holding out the box. "Just to see what the situation is. That owl must have been flying for a while – there might be news. You could be quick – back before the hour's up…"

She trailed off, suddenly realising how ridiculous the whole thing was. He was looking at her as if she had grown a second head. The offered box remained untouched, and she tried to keep her face resolute as she met his gaze.

"You're telling me to steal McGonagall's Floo Powder, pop over to St. Mungo's, and then come back before Detention is over?" he said, arching an eyebrow. "Why the fuck would you want me to do that?"

"Because I shouldn't have read that letter," she said, her voice wobbling slightly. "And I'm sorry, so… So, I'm making it up to you."

His hand reached for the box, and she handed it over. He opened it, pinched the glittering dust between his thumb and forefinger.

"And how do you know I'll come back?" he said, slow and careful. "I doubt McGonagall will be best pleased at you stealing her Floo Powder. Reckon that precious Prefect badge will be off the table, don't you?"

She forced herself to hold his gaze, folding her arms across her chest. She was, once again, getting the feeling that she was rapidly loosing control.

"Well, you'd better come back, then," she said, after faililng to come up with anything better to respond with.

The corners of his mouth quirked into a small, strange smile. Not quite a smirk. She stood there, waiting for him to throw the powder on the floor and stalk off, but instead he suddenly took a handful, replaced the box on the mantelpiece, and threw it into the flames. Green light burst upwards as he stepped into the grate, still holding her gaze. She stepped back, and she found herself noticing the silvery-blue quality of his eyes, the way his face settled into a strange sort of smile when he wasn't sneering. Almost attractive. Butterflies burst in her stomach and she caught herself, pulling her gaze away.

She could have sworn he grinned.

"St. Mungo's."

He disappeared into the green flames, and all at once he was gone.

She returned to the desk and sat down slowly. High on one of the shelves, the eagle owl clicked its beak and hooted, flapped its wings. The way it looked down at her reminded her of Malfoy's cool, detached sneer. She could certainly believe it was his owl. She picked up her quill, attempting to return to her homework, but she couldn't concentrate. Her eyes strayed routinely towards the large clock on the wall, watching seconds turn into minutes, becoming uncomfortably aware that McGonagall would be returning in only half an hour. She couldn't quite believe that she had just placed her trust in Malfoy, of all people – if McGonagall returned before he did, any chance of becoming a Prefect would be down the drain. Not to mention the shame of responding to McGonagall's trust in her by stealing her Floo Powder and helping the very person she was meant to be watching escape detention… Hermione groaned under her breath and sat back in the chair, fiddling anxiously with her quill. She watched the hands of the clock creep, and questioned what on earth she had just done.

And, just as she counted five minutes remaining, her heart beating hard in her throat, there was a sudden flash of green light. She twisted about in her chair, dizzy with relief, to see Draco stepping out of the fire grate. He looked oddly shrunken as he brushed ash from his sleeves, his face whiter than usual, his eyes slightly red. But he walked with the same proud saunter as he crossed the room, striding past her without looking at her, and dropped back into his chair. His lips were pressed tightly together, and he did not make any attempt at conversation. His hands, trembling slightly, moved towards the quills and took up his work once more. She sat there, unable to break the silence, watching as he went about his task. She didn't dare ask how it had gone, couldn't even think to understand why he had even returned. She had been so sure that he wouldn't…

Barely a couple of minutes later, the door to the classroom opened and McGonagall appeared. She offered Hermione a small, friendly smile before her face took on its usual stern appearance. She swept across the room and Hermione hastily evacuated the seat at the front desk, piling her books into her bag. She couldn't bear to look her teacher in the face as she did so, crumpling her parchment in her haste.

"Any trouble, Miss Granger?" McGonagall said lightly, looking pointedly at Malfoy.

He kept his head bent, sharpening the quills in silence, his shoulders hunched. Hermione didn't dare look at him, trying to smile in a relatively carefree manner.

"No, not at all," she said, wincing at how false her voice sounded. "All fine."

McGonagall looked at her curiously for a moment, but seemed to accept it. She shrugged, sitting down at her desk and folding her hands on it.

"Very well. You may go, Granger – thank you for your help."

She ducked her head and withdrew from the room as if she were walking on hot coals. She didn't look back to see if he watched her go, but as she pulled the door closed behind her she heard the flutter of wings and a disgruntled hoot.

"Mr. Malfoy, did you bring your owl to detention?"

She all but ran back to the Gryffindor common room.

 **~O~**

He couldn't understand why she had done it, and to his dismay he couldn't get it out of his head. The way she had looked at him, standing before the fire with the box of Floo powder in her outstretched hand, as if she were about to lead an army into battle. It had stirred something in him he didn't know he could feel, and that terrified him. Her sudden determination and consideration for him, the risk she had taken for him, made him uncertain. He hadn't even been able to look at her as she left, and had never felt more relief. He had walked back to the Slytherin common room that night with his head bent, dreading catching sight of her on some corridor somewhere, dreading her asking how St. Mungo's had gone. Not even Crabbe and Goyle, not even Zabini or Patsy knew about his mother. No one did. And it was extremely unnerving that the only person to know was a Mudblood he routinely bullied.

He managed to avoid her relatively easily over the next couple of weeks. They only had a couple of classes together, and the distraction of the Durmstrang and Florits students meant that there were more students milling around, and less of a chance that he would run into her. But his luck couldn't last forever, and sure enough he found himself faced with her rather abruptly outside Potions. He hadn't expected her – he had been showing Potter the badges Patsy had spent the previous evening putting together. He held his robes out for a better view, and Potter scowled down at the glowing, flashing plastic.

"Like them, Potter?" he smirked, enjoying the sniggers of the other students around him.

"Oh, very funny. Really _witty_."

He hadn't even noticed her; she had been blocked by Weasley. Only now did she emerge, her bushy hair electric around her face, her lips in a hard line. He only faltered for a second before pulling himself together, all too aware of the eyes of the other Slytherin students around him. His lip curled automatically and he pulled another from his pocket, lifting his chin. He had to find some way to assert his dominance over them, to show that her little stunt in detention hadn't affected him.

"Want one, Granger?" he said lightly. "I've got loads. But don't touch my hand now, I've just washed it, you see, don't want a Mudblood sliming it up."

The hurt showed instantly in her eyes, and for the first time a stab of guilt hit him. Luckily he didn't have to concentrate on it for too long – Potter was already pulling his wand free, his face red with anger. He shook off Granger as she tried to grab his arm, took a step forwards. Draco let out a short laugh, shoving the badge back into his pocket.

"Go on then, Potter," he smirked. "Moody's not here to look after you now – do it, if you've got the guts."

He drew his own wand, all too happy to repair his damaged reputation. Potter glared at him from behind his wiry spectacles. Draco glanced quickly around, making sure that the other Slytherins could see him smirking. It was about time he got his own back after that bloody ferret farce. Potter lifted his wand, and without missing a beat Draco reacted instantly.

" _Fernunculus_!"

" _Densaugeo_!"

The spells hit each other and ricocheted off in a medley of crackling light. Draco flinched backwards to avoid the jet of purple light, but it spiralled straight past him and hit Goyle instead. Goyle's wail was unfortunately comical, and Draco couldn't help but snigger as a mass of ugly boils sprung up on his face. A pathetic jinx anyway – as if that was the best Potter had been able to come up with. He turned back towards his opponent, grinning widely, and then froze as he took in the commotion on the other side of the corridor. Weasley and Potter were both fussing over Granger, whose eyes were wide with horror and whose hands were clapped over her mouth. She was shaking her head fervently as Weasley tried to pull her hands away, and Draco felt his gut twist.

"What is all of this noise about?"

The hubbub of chatter and noise in the corridor broke off sharply as Snape appeared in the doorway to the dungeon, his head held high, his haughty gaze trailing over the group of students. It stopped on Draco. He pointed a long finger.

"Explain."

He glanced at Granger. She still looked utterly horrified, still had her hands clamped tightly over her mouth. He returned his wand to his pocket and folded his arms, trying to remain nonchalant.

"Potter attached me, Sir," he said.

"We attacked each other at the same time!" Harry said hotly, glaring at him. He appealed to Snape, furious at the injustice of it. "He hit Goyle – look!"

Snape took in Goyle's copious boils and his lips quirked slightly. "Hospital wing, Goyle."

As Goyle lumbered off towards the stairs, Ron seized Granger's arm and pulled her forwards. She shrank back, as if shrinking under Snape's gaze, but Ron wouldn't let go.

"Malfoy got Hermione!" he announced. "Look!"

He dragged at her hands, and at last she was forced to reveal her mouth. Her front teeth had grown, already too huge for her mouth, and were continuing to expand. She looked like some kind of beaver. Draco felt a hot rush of shame as she directed her gaze at the floor, her face red. Snape looked at her for a long moment.

"I see no difference."

Behind him, Pansy erupted into a cascade of laughter. Granger's eyes filled with tears and without a word she turned on her heel and ran, disappearing up the corridor and out of sight. Draco watched her go with a strange, unfamiliar sense of dread. Pansy dragged at his arm, and he turned away as her footsteps died away into the castle, trying to smirk. He couldn't quite get his face to work properly.

Snape was shepherding them into the classroom, ignoring the incredulous complaints of the Gryffindor students. Potter shot him a venomous look before throwing his bag onto his desk and slumping into a chair – alone, Draco noticed. Apparently he and the Weasel were no longer as inseparable as before. He took his usual seat beside Pansy, but she didn't seem to be able to stop laughing. And, for some reason, it was getting on his nerves.

The lesson was on brewing a Draught of Living Death – an extremely advanced potion which usually would have greatly interested him. But rather than getting stuck in to his work, he found himself pushing dead beetles around on his desk or splitting strands of lemongrass. Once or twice, Pansy leaned over to touch his arm. Normally, he enjoyed the attention. Now, he felt as if his skin was crawling. He shook her off irritably, looked at his potion properly for the first time in the last half hour. It was a ruddy brown rather than the cool blue it was supposed to be. He blinked at it, confused as to how he could have produced such a bad effort.

"Draco?"

Pansy was pawing at his arm again. She frowned at his potion, then raised her plucked eyebrows. He felt distinctly uncomfortable under her stare and threw down the handful of komodo dragon claws he had been fiddling with. Pansy watched in confusion.

"What's up with you?"

"I don't know," he said honestly.

And then, because that seemed to shock her even more, he schooled his face into a scowl and sat back from his cauldron.

"I'm just fucking bored of this crap," he muttered.

The approaching rustle of material alerted him of his teacher's approach just before Snape's billowing black robes appeared in the corner of his vision. He looked up, and found himself the focus of Snape's thin-lipped, cold stare. He stared back.

"Problem, Mr. Malfoy?"

It never ceased to amaze him that Snape seemed to be able to speak without moving his lips. He was about to shrug the question off, but the words froze on his lips. He had just been offered an out, and he found a different response slipping over his tongue instead.

"I have a headache," he said lazily, glancing at his potion. "It's affected my work, I think."

Snape inspected the potion. His expression did not change, but Draco knew that he wasn't fooled for a second. Still, it didn't really matter. As always, Snape simply nodded, stirring the potion slowly and critically.

"Clearly. You're exempt from this test. Go to the hospital wing."

Draco leapt down from his stool and packed his potions kit away into his bag, pleasantly aware of the furious mutterings from the Gryffindors. Pansy's hand was again snatching at his arm as he turned to leave, her eyes wide with overbearing sympathy.

"Are you alright, Draco?"

He pretended to be straightening the strap on his bag so that he could pull away from her without having to deal with any rebuffs. He threw a smirk across the room at Weasel, who had noticed his early dismissal and looked fuming. His potion looked even worse than Draco's, and he had probably actually been trying.

"Something die in there, Weasel?" he muttered as he passed by.

He continued on out of the dungeon before Weasley had a chance to respond, satisfied with his exit.

Once he had actually emerged out into the corridor, his pace slowed. He realised that he hadn't actually planned beyond getting out of the room, and yet as he took in the empty stone corridor he knew exactly where he had been thinking of going. It just didn't make any sense. He stopped at the top of the stairs, glancing around at the silent hallways, enjoying the lack of people. After all, there wouldn't be many people in the corridors to see where he was going at this time…

He let his feet carry him up a few more flights of stairs, telling himself he was just wandering with no real purpose, until the large, arched doors of the hospital wing came into sight. Even as he approached the doors cracked open, and for one horrible moment he suddenly remembered that Goyle, too, had been sent up to the hospital wing and would be there to witness him, could be emerging from there at that very moment – but, to his surprise and relief, a familiar mass of long, bushy hair appeared. He stopped short of reaching the doors. She hadn't noticed him – she was touching her mouth carefully, thoughtfully, as if deep in thought. He was relieved to see that the giant teeth had disappeared, and that she was no longer crying.

As the doors fell shut behind her, she raised her head. And she saw him.

Her hand went instantly to her hair, pushing it back out of her face, and her eyes seemed to widen. Her lips parted slightly, and he felt his stomach do a strange, alien movement which made him wonder if he was about to throw up. He gripped the strap of his school bag tightly, his mind mercilessly blank.

 _Christ, say something, anything…_

"Fix your face, Granger?"

He almost groaned aloud at the poor choice of greeting, but somehow she seemed to find his remark funny. She smiled, almost mischievously, and he was struck instantly by it. She looked slightly different – he couldn't quite put his finger on how, but she did.

"I have. Is it your turn?"

He was so busy scrutinising what was different about her that he almost missed the jibe, and by the time he processed what she had said it was too late to retaliate. She grinned and waved a hand at the hospital wing.

"Goyle's still in there. The boils won't come off."

Draco chuckled. "Yeah?"

"They've multiplied, actually."

A full laugh left his lips, and before he knew it he found that it was she looking at him with a hesitant kind of curiosity. He didn't have to think for long to figure out what she was interested in – he had just laughed, a real laugh, and he was pretty sure she had never seen that before. Mainly because the only person who was any good at actually making him laugh was Zabini, and even then only when they sat up late in the Common room together alone. Embarrassment crept up his spine and he cleared his throat, about to cough up the words he suddenly realised he had come there to say.

"Sorry. About the teeth," he muttered. "I didn't mean to… Sorry."

A bemused smile had formed on her surprised face. It widened as she took in his awkwardness, and again he noticed the difference.

"Draco Malfoy, _apologising?"_ she said. "What, were they cooking up some kind of reality reverser in Potions?"

"Wait, your teeth…"

She cocked her head in a wordless question, but the glint in her eye told him that he was right. He had finally landed on what was different about her. Her front teeth had always been large, but now they were slightly smaller. The subtle alteration had changed her – before, she had always looked away when she smiled, or hidden her face behind her hair. Now her face was uplifted, her smile wider, more unapologetic. He couldn't understand how such a tiny change could have such an affect.

"When Madam Pomfrey was fixing them, she held up a mirror and told me to stop when they were back to normal," she was saying, her voice laughingly nonchalant. "And I just… kept going a little longer."

He became aware that he was staring and hastily averted his gaze, trying to think of some joke to make, some sly insult, but the words wouldn't come. Her smile seemed to be etched into his mind's eye. He snorted instead, dragged a hand through his hair. When he glanced back towards her, her smile had faded slightly. She looked around furtively, as if about to share a secret, and then closed some of the distance between them. Her gaze had grown more serious.

"How's your mother?"

He was completely blindsided by the question. He hadn't expected it. And yet he didn't feel angry – almost the opposite. Her question hung there in front of him in the air. He knew he could shrug it off, tell her to mind her own business. But instead he found himself replying, keeping his own voice low.

"She'll be ok."

Relief spread across her face. "That's great. Was she sick?"

He watched her face light up at his response, considered the impossibility of explaining it all to her. She was so far away from everything in his own life that even speaking to her felt laughable. It was as if she was standing on the opposite bank of a river, and she was trying to build a bridge out of sand, holding out a hand to him. And all he could do was look, rooted as he was in the mud. Her question had too many answers, and he couldn't fathom how to approach them.

"Kind of."

She seemed to get the message. She nodded, shooting another quick smile at him.

"Well, I'm glad she's feeling better."

Silence settled over them, and he found himself fidgeting uncomfortably. He still couldn't quite get used to the fact that she could ask about something so personal, that she even knew. No one else knew, not even Zabini. His father would never have let the truth of what was happening in their family get out. And yet there she was, and she was still smiling at him. Almost as if she cared.

And then she was ducking her head, in that self-conscious, shy way he was beginning to recognise, and continuing past him. He glanced over his shoulder, just enough to watch her go. Her bushy hair bobbed behind her in time to her footsteps, and he could have sworn she looked back too before turning the corner. He stood there for a few moments, listening, just in case she came back. Then, his stomach still fluttering sickeningly, he perched on the edge of the windowsill and settled down to wait for Goyle.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading, hope it was ok.**

 **Reviews are welcome.**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

* * *

 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

* * *

 _ **Then**_

 _ **Fourth Year**_

"Go and ask 'er for me."

Draco spluttered on the water he had just taken a sip of amid the loud laughter of Crabbe and Goyle. He was still choking when the librarian came rushing over, squinting furiously over her glasses, her lips pursed. She held a finger to her lips, shooting a deadly glare at each of them, before sweeping away once more. Goyle was still sniggering quietly into his fist, and Krum was left looking at the faces around the table, scowling in confusion.

"What?" he demanded.

"Hey, Krum." Zabini leaned forwards, apparently taking pity on him. "I think you're asking the wrong guy."

"He ees the only one," Krum argued stubbornly, jutting out his chin.

"You got a whole table of people here," Draco protested, waving a hand at the others. "Why does it have to be me?"

"No!" Krum stabbed a finger at Crabbe and Goyle. "They are stupid."

Draco and Zabini burst out laughing at Crabbe and Goyle's furious red faces, scrambling for a retort and coming up with nothing. Krum continued around the table, turning his accusing finger on his two fellow Durmstrang students sitting beside him.

"They cannot speak English." He pointed at Zabini. "He ees _gay."_

Zabini shrugged. "Fair point. But, you see, Draco's a racist."

Even as Draco swiped at him, Krum was speaking again.

"I do not care for thees stupid 'Mudblood' talk," he said. "Ask her out for me. You said we are friends, no?"

"Yeah, but there are limits," Draco objected.

"You do thees for me," Krum insisted, leaning forwards across the table, "and I will give you ze snitch from ze world cup."

There were hisses of alarm and excitement from the others. Draco held Krum's gaze, hardly daring to believe it. He couldn't be serious. The snitch from the world cup? He darted a glance over his shoulder at Granger's bushy head, which was currently – as usual – buried in a book. She was almost walled in by piles of them, sitting alone in the far corner of the library. She was there so often he was surprised she didn't simply take up residence there. He looked back at Krum, who was smirking, clearly aware that he had caught Draco's attention.

"You'd never give that up," Draco said. "You're bluffing."

"We lost zat game," Krum said flippantly. "I don't care. I will keep ze snitches from ze games I win. I was going to give it to my little cousin, but I will get 'im a broom instead."

Zabini was grinning, lolling back in his chair, eyeing Draco knowingly. Crabbe and Goyle were staring expectantly, their eyes round, quills clutched tightly in their meaty fists. The two other Durmstrangs were muttering together, clearly very opposed to the proposition. Draco flicked his tongue across his lower lip. Then he shoved his chair back and rose to his feet. Zabini let out a bark of laughter.

"Shut up," he snapped. He held a warning finger at Krum. "You swear?"

Krum held out his hand. Draco grabbed it before he could change his mind and shook it, then span on his heel and strode over to her table.

She lifted her head as he approached, frowning, her jaw set in anger. Recognition dawned on her and her face softened slightly – which surprised him. Usually when she saw him she looked decidedly pissed off. But now she laid down her quill and cocked her head as he reached her, her bushy hair swinging around her.

" _What_ , Malfoy? Haven't you disturbed the library enough yet?"

He couldn't help but snigger. "Oh, disturbed the library? Oh my, whatever shall I do? I have _disturbed_ the _library."_

"Yes, you have!" she hissed, keeping her own voice low. "I've been trying to work, and you lot are over there just… _squabbling,_ or I don't know what. Can't you go somewhere else?"

"Believe me, Granger, what I wouldn't give to go somewhere else rather than sitting here staring at your ugly face all day," he retorted.

The insult had got old – she didn't even react. She rolled her eyes and retrieved her quill, dipping it in her inkpot slowly.

"What do you want?"

He caught the words on the tip of his tongue, trying to place them in the right order. She was waiting, one eyebrow arched, one finger tapping impatiently against the tabletop.

"Well?"

"Do you want to go to that Yule Ball crap with Krum?"

Her eyebrows shot upwards. " _What?_ "

He jerked his head over his shoulder at the table of Slytherins. She leaned to the side to follow his gaze, and then sat back abruptly, looking like a rabbit in the headlights. She looked him up and down, and then let out a tight laugh.

"What are you, twelve? As if."

"So you don't?"

"I don't have time for your stupid games, Malfoy, I have homework to do."

"Oh, no, he's serious. Don't ask me why, but he is."

She scowled at him. "Please, Malfoy, just go away."

"He thinks you're 'preetty,'" he continued, in a poor impression of Krum's accent. "And if you go with him he's going to give me his World Cup snitch, so just do it, ok?"

She was blinking in surprise, owlish. "He said I'm pretty?"

"He won't stop bloody going on about it. Look, Granger, I really want that snitch, so how about you just say yes."

"Ok."

He had not expected her to say that. He searched her face for a moment, looking for some sign that she was lying, but she looked genuinely excited. And he wasn't quite sure why that bothered him so much. Her face had spread into a small, shy smile, and she was looking past him at the other table. She lifted one hand in a slight, delicate wave, and then her cheeks flushed red and she looked down quickly. He had never seen her make that kind of movement before – girlish, consciously feminine, welcoming a moment of attention rather than hiding from it. He tried to think of something to say, and came up with nothing.

"Good," he said at last.

He turned and headed back to his own table. Krum was sitting up very straight, watching Draco seriously, searching his face for news. Draco slouched down into his chair.

"Vell?" Krum demanded.

Draco briefly contemplated lying to him. "Yeah, she said she'll go."

Krum darted up from the table at once and hurried over. Draco turned to watch, and felt a slight rush of satisfaction as she looked up angrily at yet another interruption. But then her face was positively glowing and she was smiling that shy smile again, and whatever Krum was saying must be really fucking smooth because it was making her giggle and Christ, Granger never giggled. Especially not in the library.

"I can't believe you just did that."

He turned. Zabini was barely controlling his laughter. He snatched up a ball of paper and threw it at him, smirking as it bounced off the other boy's head.

"Screw you, Blaise. You want that snitch just as much as me."

"You just asked out a Mudblood for Krum," Zabini sniggered. "You know what, this could be fun... Just how much would you do for that snitch?"

He snatched up his wand and sent a flicker of electricity at Zabini's head. And then the librarian was back and she was ushering them out of their seats, her shrill voice herding them out of the library with their books flapping after them, and he had one last glimpse of Granger and Krum's bemused faces before the doors slammed shut.

 **~O~**

The Yule Ball, with all its glittering decorations and flickering candlelight, was the closest thing Hermione had ever come to living out the fantasy she had kept in the back of her mind for as long as she had been at school. The idea that, one day, she would be able to walk into a room with someone holding her arm, a someone who was proud to be seen with her and wanted to dance with her. That she would swirl around the room in a dizzy haze, like Cinderella, and no one would be mocking her. For a couple of brief hours, that dream became something tangible. She had walked in with Krum, and she had heard people whispering in surprise and amazement at the difference between the girl they saw in the library and the girl they saw now. And despite herself she had enjoyed it, and she had let herself believe that it was all real.

But, of course, the sharp reminder of who she really was came all too soon. She was never usually one to give in to that kind of dreamy, fanciful thinking, and reality came crashing down on her like a punch in the gut. In this instance, reality wore ginger hair and an angry, sullen expression.

"You're fraternising with the enemy."

"He's using you… He's way too old!"

And then, after he had dug his way under her skin and thoroughly wiped the smile off her face, the worst one came.

"They get scary when they get older..."

And she couldn't help herself – she screamed back at him. Because, obviously, if she wasn't going to play the nerd she was going to have to play the doting, naive girlfriend type, and she refused to be turned into either of them. And perhaps the worst thing about it was that Harry, who had always fought her corner in the past, who had always been there for her, said nothing. He said _nothing._ And somehow his silence seemed to hurt more than Ron's words.

She span around, hot tears pricking at her eyes. It wasn't just the ruined night, it wasn't just the hostile mood, it wasn't just the blatant sexism he had just tossed back at her - it was more. It was that he was making her feel bad for not wanting him, for not simpering at his feet. It was more that she actually did, despite everything, feel _guilty._ And she had never felt more enraged.

"You've ruined everything Ronald Weasley!"

He retreated up the stairs, Harry just behind him. She stumbled to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, her heart pounding, her shoulders heaving with suppressed sobs. She heard a voice and glanced over her shoulder - Victor Krum was there, squinting out of the Great Hall in search for her. A girl from Beauxbaton was trying valiantly to get his attention. _Let him have her,_ she thought viciously. She hadn't even liked him like that, not really. She had been so flattered by the offer and the thought that someone had actually wanted to go with her that the only answer had seemed to be yes. And yet now she wished she had not come at all.

She escaped out into the castle grounds, where someone - perhaps Professor Sprout and Flitwick - had done a beautiful job of creating a twisting seating area made up of low benches and tall hedges, which made pathways along which to stroll. Silver fireflies made of glimmering air flitted to and fro, in and out of the hedges. Every now and again the hedges formed a larger courtyard where magnificent ice sculptures - consisting of the animals of the four houses, as well as the Durmstrang dragon and the Beauxbaton swan - let fly pretty fountains of water or snow. It seemed to have become the place to go for a quick grope - she could make out several couples nestled into bushes and on benches, engaged in fiercely serious tonsil tennis. It was the last thing she had wanted to see.

Turning on her heel, she crunched angrily across the gravel path, ducking away down one of the hedge-tipped alleys. Her feet carried her away from the music and hubbub of the festivities until the air began to still slightly. Only when she reached the edge of the hedged area did she begin to slow down. Further before her the grounds dropped into a steep hill and the forest began, and she had no wish to make a bad evening worse by heading in there. Out here there was little light but for the tiny fireflies and the upper windows of the castle. She sucked in a deep breath of the chill air, letting it seep into her bones and slow her racing heart and pounding head.

It took her a few moments to recognise the smell of cigarette smoke.

She turned slowly, her eyes narrowing against the dimness, and caught the red flare of the end of a cigarette. She blinked at it until the face behind it came into view. She should have guessed by the white blonde hair, by the black and dark green dress robes which looked more like a suit, the shiny, brand new black boots.

"Fucking hell, Granger," he said, his voice clear as a bell in the cold air. "You look almost like a girl."

She let out a short burst of humourless laughter. In a way, the familiarity of the jibe was almost refreshing after the evening she'd had. She folded her arms as he stepped forwards into view.

"Didn't take you for a smoker," she said, glancing pointedly at the roll of white paper between his fingers. "Isn't that a little too Muggle for you?"

He shook his head, tutting. "Haven't you done your research? All the great wizards smoked. They brought tobacco over here first from other countries - if anything, Muggles are doing a wizard thing."

"Something I never thought I'd hear you say."

"I didn't say I agreed with it."

She snorted, turned her gaze on the dark line of tree. They stood in silence for a few moments. A plume of smoke floated past her and dissipated on the wind.

"Who made you cry, Granger?"

She looked at him sharply. But he wasn't laughing. Rather he was frowning, not a trace of mockery on his face. She shook her head, huffing shortly in answer.

"What? I wasn't even in there, it can't have been me."

"No," she said sarcastically. "It wasn't you. Well done, Malfoy, congratulations."

He shrugged, scuffing at the snow with one heel. She brushed at her face with both hands, sniffed, pulled herself together.

"Ron, actually," she said, more quietly.

She felt tears of anger and hurt pool in her eyes and looked away from him. There was a short pause while she fixed her eyes on the trees and tried to pretend that she wasn't crying and he puffed away silently. He broke the silence first, huffing slightly.

"Well, he always was a royal fucking idiot, wasn't he? Nothing new there."

And she wanted so much to defend her friend and respond as she always had in the past, but instead she found herself actually laughing. And perhaps that was the moment that she realised she was so, so finished with scrabbling around after him, writing his essays and correcting his homework and pretending his jokes were funny and standing by stupidly as he stared at Lavender Brown's arse in Herbology. He so clearly didn't care about her. She wasn't proud enough to pretend that coming here with Krum tonight wasn't partly about showing him that she could move on if she wanted, a gentle prod to see if he would up his game. And yet all he had done was punish her. She was fed up with waiting.

Draco, meanwhile, seemed surprised at her reaction. She liked that look on his face – usually he was so sneering and mocking that she always felt that he had someone over her. And yet, when she surprised him, suddenly the tables were turned. On a sudden impulse, she stretched out her hand.

"Can I have some?"

His eyebrows leapt upwards and she had to struggle to keep a straight face. He looked from her outstretched hand to the cigarette and back again, his mouth slightly open, caught speechless for a few delicious seconds.

"You can't be fucking serious."

"Go on – I want to try it."

He let out a dazed laugh. She fully expected him to refuse and tell her to fuck off back to the dance, but to her surprise he suddenly held out the little roll of paper. She crossed over to him to take it. It was larger than she had thought it would be - she couldn't hold it like him, nestled between his first two. Rather she pinned it between her thumb and first finger, eyeing it uncertainly. She hadn't really wanted any, it was only to see what he would do really. But he was watching her now, and she couldn't back down. She raised it to her lips and took a tiny breath. He grinned.

"You're supposed to actually breathe it in, not just hold it in your mouth."

She glared at him, furious that he had deciphered her so quickly. Slowly, she lifted it again and took a deeper breath. Instantly her lungs were choked with what felt like pure ash and she coughed harshly, flinching away from it at once, spluttering. She heard him laughing and felt herself flush red, shoved it back towards him.

"Too cool for you, Granger?"

"It's horrible," she croaked, glaring at it as he took it back. "How can you stand it?"

He shrugged, putting it back between his teeth. But he couldn't stop laughing long enough to take a pull from it, and in the end he had to flick it away, still giggling.

"Ah, thanks for that one," he smirked. "That was hilarious."

"Shut up, Draco."

The words were out before she could stop them, and suddenly she was the one caught speechless. Her eyes widened and she struggled to think of something to say – perhaps he hadn't noticed, if only she could move on the conversation quickly enough – but he had, and he was staring at her with a strange expression on his face. It was something she had not been expecting, and yet something she could not quite put her finger on. As if he was surprised, but not angry. The awkwardness grew too much for her to bear and she turned away quickly, pretending to check her sleeve was straight, her face colouring. Why had she called him that? She didn't even know where that had come from. He let out a short, slightly forced laugh beside her.

"Getting chummy, are we?"

"Don't," she said, desperately fiddling with her bracelet. "I don't… sorry."

"S'fine."

And she was hit with a fresh wave of shock. She didn't know how to handle this Draco Malfoy. She was used to the constant taunting and mockery, she knew how to react to that. This was just… alien. He suddenly straightened up from where he had been leaning, and she didn't know if she was relieved or disappointed that he had decided to go. There wasn't much else to do – it was just too awkward to carry on any kind of normal conversation now. Although _why_ it was so awkward escaped her somewhat… She looked up to find that he hadn't, in fact, left at all. He had stepped away from the shadows of the hedge and held out his hand. She looked at it in confusion.

"What are you doing?"

"Pissing off Weasley," he replied smoothly, his hand still outstretched. "Come on – dancing with me will make him way angrier than sharing a butterbeer with Krum."

She couldn't conceal her disbelief at his suggestion, and something like rejection flickered in his gaze. But he didn't move, and she found that she did not say no.

"Ron's not even here."

"No," he said, tilting his head to the side as if contemplating the fact. "But you'll know that it happened."

And just like that, he had made her laugh again. She must have had too many butterbeers earlier – her head was feeling light and airy and she had no idea why she was stepping forwards and taking his hand. As soon as she did she was suddenly filled with a strange, blind fear of stepping into the Great Hall at his side – it was impossible – everyone would see, and she wouldn't know what to say, how to act… He seemed to notice, a similar hesitation on his own face, and rather than leading her in he simply pulled her closer.

"It's too hot inside," she found herself saying lamely, as if that explained it all.

He just nodded. His teeth fastened briefly on his lip and then, decisively, he put his other hand on her waist. She stood frozen, expecting him to shove her away and laugh with every passing second. But he didn't, and she felt more stupid just standing there dumbly like a mannequin. So she put her hand on his shoulder, and to her own dazed astonishment found herself smiling. They stood there, just about able to hear the music drifting from the open doors of the Great Hall.

"I hate this song," she said, trying to fill the still air between them.

He blinked and listened for a moment, as if he had not even noticed it. Then his usual smirk was back.

"God, me too," he said, and began to lead her in a slow, stilted waltz around the snowy grass.

Their feet left a trail of spirals behind them, and her toes were covered with snow and absolutely freezing, but for some reason she didn't really care. She didn't know how to dance at all, but he did, apparently, and he led them slowly enough for her to follow without tripping. She tried to look at something other than him, but it was surprisingly difficult when they were so close. Practically nose to nose, if he hadn't been taller than her. And _he_ wasn't making any effort to avoid her gaze. Eventually she stopped trying to look over his shoulder and simply looked back at him. She could feel her heart beating fast in her neck, fluttering like wings. Her stomach felt strange. God, she wasn't about to be sick, was she? No – she didn't think so. His eyes were the most tranquil blend of blue and grey. He was, in fact, quite attractive, she realised. She had never really thought about it before. But there he was – high cheekbones, striking eyes and smooth lips which were no longer smirking but instead forming some sort of half-smile, curled upwards at one corner…

She had to catch herself there because she was sure that she was blushing profusely now as well as staring, and she really had no idea at all what she was doing. Part of her wanted to let go and run for the Great Hall, but her body didn't move. And he wasn't moving, either – he wasn't revealing it all to be some cruel joke, or calling her a Mudblood, or anything. In fact, he was being completely un-Malfoy-like.

"Granger," he said, and then broke off abruptly.

They had slowed down, now just sort of spinning at a snail's pace. Her voice had shrivelled up somewhere in the back of her throat, so she simply looked back at him, waiting, slightly breathless. His tongue darted out and ran across his lips briefly, and he was looking at her with the strangest expression.

When someone suddenly appeared from between the trees, she swore her heart stopped.

They flinched apart like lightning, as if hit with a cow prod, and she found her hands shaking wildly, irrationally, excuses already teetering on the tip of her tongue – but then two fourth years went running past, heading for somewhere over to their left, and disappearing into the darkness almost as quickly as they had appeared. She stared after them, her heart thundering in her chest. As their laughing voices disappeared into the darkness she glanced over at Malfoy, who looked just as shaken as she felt. His hands had let go of her as if she were red hot, and she was suddenly reminded of who they both were, of the gulf between their lives. She heard herself giggle at the ridiculousness of it all and pushed her hair back out of her face.

"I'm going to bed," she said.

He glanced over at her, his eyebrows pulled tightly together. She couldn't tell if he was angry with her or with the first years. She turned towards the opening in the hedges, her feet now numb with the snow, lifting her dress out of the dampness.

"Gran… Hermione!"

She was just about to move around the hedge when he spoke. His call stopped her in her tracks. She turned slowly, looked back at him over her shoulder. He was standing where she had left him in the snow, looking for all the world like someone lost in the woods. But as she met his gaze he straightened, and his hands plunged back into his pockets, and his lips took on that familiar sneer. He jerked his head at the Great Hall, his eyes narrowing.

"Don't go crying, now," he said coolly. "There's no point in that."

She smiled, and was again struck by how easy it was to do so. "I know."

"Of course you do."

She shook her head, casting her eyes skywards. "Goodnight."

She made her way off through the snow, trying to figure out what exactly had just happened, putting it down to snowfall and stars and butterbeer and sheer, inexplicable madness. And yet, by the time she had got back to the Gryffindor common room – hurrying into the corners every now and again to avoid a gaggle of familiar faces – she couldn't help but find herself standing there in front of the fire, warming her chilled arms and pulling her heels off her red-raw toes. She couldn't help but stare at the flames and imagine what might have happened if they hadn't been interrupted, if they had just kept getting closer and closer, until there was no space between them at all.

And then she had to go upstairs because she had clearly gone insane and had to go to bed immediately.

 ** _Now_**

She woke slowly, still half caught up in the memories that had flooded her brain all night long. She could almost still feel the fine snow flakes against her cheeks, the soft heat of his hand on her waist. She hadn't thought of that night in a very long time. Once more, for what felt like the hundredth time in the last few hours, she gazed at the ceiling and tormented herself with questions.

Why hadn't he answered the door when she had crept up there the night before?

What had happened to him in the six months since the war?

Why wasn't he with his parents?

Was he thinking about her?

It was stranger having him there in the same house as her, and yet not seeing him. But perhaps he didn't even want to see her. They hadn't spoken in so long, and she had not even seen him in the Battle of Hogwarts. They had snatched a brief glance after that fiasco in the Room of Requirement, but everything had been so messed up at that point. She hadn't had time to take him aside. They had both just been… surviving. And afterwards there had been so much to do – Fred's funeral, for god's sake – and her friends had needed her. She had finally been able to bring her parents back from Australia. There was just too much happening.

She had assumed that, if they ever did meet again, he would instigate the contact. But he never did.

Ginny and Luna began to stir, and she sat up and reached for her dressing gown before they could wake up properly. She just couldn't face them. For the first time since she had begun staying in Grimmauld Place, she began to wish for the privacy of her own room. She pulled her gown on, snatched up her towel, and hurried out of the room.

Out in the corridor, she paused. She looked at the narrow staircase that led up to the attic room, and the silence from above her head was utterly suffocating. Her heart began to beat hard and fast and she tore away, her own nervousness upsetting her mood even further. She hated being scared of seeing him. She took the stairs down to the next floor two at a time and locked herself into the bathroom, finally able to take a few deep breaths. She stared at her own hands, white-knuckled, gripping the bathroom sink. Her mind was a haze of muted panic, of half-formed predictions of what their first meeting after all this time would be like… God, she didn't want to think about it. Not least because things were still so tense with Ron. She knew he still half expected her to ask him to take her back one of these days. He still looked at her like she was his… With a groan of frustration, she tore off her dressing gown and the large t-shirt she wore as a nightdress and stepped into the shower, dousing her head in freezing cold water, and stopping her brain from thinking for a few blissful seconds.

She needed a plan.

As soon as she saw Harry that morning, she would quiz him on exactly _why_ and _how_ Draco – _Malfoy,_ she had to remember to call him Malfoy – had ended up at Grimmauld Place. She would get the facts straight before she saw him. And then, when they finally did meet, she would take him aside and calmly explain that it had been a long time, and things were different now, and they should try to just be mature adults about everything and get along… She clawed back the shower curtain and climbed out of the stream of water, breathing hard. Her own small, pinched face stared back at her from the bathroom mirror, and she avoided her own gaze.

What if he still… felt something?

What if he didn't?

She rubbed her hair dry so hard that she gave herself a headache, and pelted out of the bathroom with her gown drawn hastily around her. By the time she got back to the room she shared with Ginny and Luna, the other girls were still sleepily waking up. She dragged on her clothes, barely paying attention to what she was putting on, and ran downstairs without even saying good morning to them.

The house was very quiet, and she was grateful for the distinct lack of people. She needed time to gather her thoughts together, to set herself straight. The only problem was that every time she tried to think what she would say to him when she saw him, her mind went horribly blank. It had been so long since they had last been able to sit down together and simply talk - not as Death Eaters or rebels or enemies, but just as people. She almost felt like the person she had known so well back when they were students was no longer there.

She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that, as she pushed open the door to the kitchen, she almost didn't see Harry sitting at the table. And she would have walked straight past him if he hadn't glanced up sleepily and mumbled a greeting.

"Morning, 'Mione."

She flinched violently, startled. "Oh – Oh, Harry, hi."

She froze in the doorway, as if caught stealing, and he smiled at her wearily, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"Everything ok? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"No, no! I mean, I haven't," she blustered.

God, she was terrible at lying. She ducked her head, working her fingers through her wet hair, and hurried over to the steaming kettle above the fire.

"Coffee?"

"Got one, thanks," he said.

She glanced over her shoulder. He looked tired, his face a little paler than usual, and for a moment her own worries flew out of her head. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table with him, arching an eyebrow questioningly. He huffed a short laugh and swirled his coffee about in his mug, watching the dark brown liquid spin.

"So, you're still talking to me, at least."

"What do you mean?"

He sighed heavily and raked a hand through his messy black hair. "The other night. I think our new visitor has severely pissed a few people off."

Her stomach lurched slightly, but she managed to keep a straight face. She hid behind her coffee cup.

"Ron?"

He nodded ruefully. "And George. And Dean. And Neville. And Hannah. And – oh, I don't know, just about everyone." He looked up at her pleadingly. "Look, it's not like I wanted him here either, you know? But if this is going to be the Order's headquarters, it can't just be a… a college dorm, you know?"

She could sympathise. Most of the time, the others seemed to treat Grimmauld Place like a second Hogwarts. But she knew Harry wanted bigger things for it – he wanted to continue the work his parents had started, wanted to support the Ministry and honour Dumbledore's memory. He rubbed both hands over his face, looked at her hopelessly. Just like he did when he was stuck on his potions homework assignments.

"This is a mess, isn't it?"

She couldn't help but smile at his dejected face, and shook her head. "Of course not. They'll come round."

She hesitated, and then pressed on, throwing caution to the winds.

"Why _is_ he here, Harry? What's going on?"

He sniffed, pushed his glasses up onto his forehead so that he could rub both eyes with his forefingers.

"He's on the Ministry's list of defected Death Eaters," he explained tiredly, smothering a yawn. "Basically, his actions towards the end of the war indicated he wanted out of Voldemort's lot. But they're still not really sure whose side he's on. They've been trying to bring him in for questioning, but he's been dodging their owls – only Hestia ran into him last night and rescued him from a load of Death Eaters who, she says, were about to blow his head off."

Hermione felt her stomach curl into a tight ball. She struggled to keep her face emotionless, hoping her tightly closed fists were displaying interest in his story rather than concern. She swallowed hard, nodding, urging him silently to continue.

"So, Hestia seized her chance and brought him in. Apparently he's homeless, so she's got him on lockdown here. Hopefully now they'll be able to question him properly."

Harry sighed heavily and glanced up at her, his brow furrowed. She could tell he was warring with himself, trying to figure something out. Something about the situation was troubling him. She could only wait until he decided to explain himself to her – which, thankfully, he did after a short pause.

"He looks like shit, Hermione," he said at last. "When Hestia brought him here, he still had blood all over his face. He looks… I don't know, like he's sick or something. I thought he might've got hurt in the fight, but you know what Malfoy's like – every time I tried to ask he got all… urgh."

He gestured vaguely. She knew exactly what he meant. She wet her lips anxiously, trying to choose the right words.

"Is he… Do you think he's involved in the attacks?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't know. He could be. Either way, he's our only lead. He could be the only way we track down the last of the Death Eaters."

He buried his head in his hands again, and she reached out to rub his arm comfortingly. She didn't envy his position at all – he felt so responsible for finding the last of them, for making sure Voldemort's influence was gone once and for all. But he was still barely even an adult – she didn't know how he could be taking on so much work for the Ministry already.

"The others will be fine," she said, squeezing his arm until he looked up at her. "Really, Harry. If they can't be mature about this… Well, then they're not cut out to be Aurors."

He laughed. "I'll let you tell them that."

"I will!" she sat up straighter, lifting her chin. "They have to understand that this isn't a game. They have to understand how hard you're trying."

He shrugged and pushed his way up from the table, draining the rest of his coffee. Tossing the mug into the sink, he raised his arms high above his head in a long stretch and squinted down at her.

"I know I should stay here and be responsible and stuff, but… I dunno, I could do with some air. You want to go see how Hogwarts is looking?"

She felt a smile rushing across her face and stood up too. "I'll grab my coat."

And that, right there, was why she knew she would always be able to rely on him. In some ways, she and Harry were just the same. Sometimes, they just needed to breathe.

 **~O~**

Draco made his sluggish way back towards consciousness to the hardness of the wooden floorboards pressing against his side. He lay there for a while, taking stock of his throbbing head and the sharp pain in his chest. His whole body ached in protest at the night spent on the floor. Moving slowly, stiff and shaky, he rolled onto his back and then sat up, inch by inch. By the sunlight streaming through the window, he judged it must be late morning. He took in the room – the bed he hadn't had the chance to sleep in, the dusty chest of drawers, his bag deposited on the floor near the door. He had to remind himself that it had all really happened. It was such a ridiculous turn of events that it didn't seem real. To go from being chased down by Death Eaters to living in Saint Potter's attic within the space of an hour was disorientating, to say the least.

But he was there, and in many ways as he held onto the end of the bed to pull himself upright, he had to admit that as bad turns went, this was a pretty lucky one.

He made it to his feet and promptly sat down again, but this time on the bed. He was about to collapse his head into his hands, but his chest seared violently and he froze until the pain subsided. He gingerly shrugged off his jacket and dug in the pockets until he found the little bottle that was now his lifeline. He didn't have much left, but he didn't have the energy to be conservative. There were still two more bottles to go, after all. He took several large gulps and, as the welcome numbness set in, finally managed to take a deep breath. He watched the sunlight creeping across the floorboards near his feet. His head felt heavy and clouded with the Nightshade. He gave into it and toppled slowly onto his side, dragged his knees up to his chest, and closed his eyes.

He didn't sleep, drifting in and out of thought. He wasn't sure how much time passed, but when he opened his eyes again the light was noticeably dimmer. He didn't feel much better, but his body was demanding that he get up – he needed a piss, his mouth felt like sandpaper, and he was becoming uncomfortably aware of a stickiness beneath his shirt. He felt it carefully with one hand, being careful not to press too hard, and recognised the dampness soaking through his shirt. With a groan, he heaved himself upright once again and reached for his bag.

Potter had said the bathroom was on the third floor – or somewhere, his memory of the particulars of their conversation the night before were somewhat hazy. He sat there on the edge of the bed, blinking slowly. He felt hungover, and yet hadn't had the bonus of drinking the night before. He pressed his thumbs into his eyelids, strained his ears for any sound from downstairs. But the house was quiet, and he dared to hope that perhaps the others had gone out somewhere. He didn't much fancy running into Potter's entourage.

Eventually, the blissful idea of a hot shower forced him up. He dug through his bag for the box he had learned to keep well-stocked and close by at all times and a change of clothes. Then he located his wand – tossed carelessly on the upturned box / bedside table – and made for the door. He unlocked it with a flick of his wand, and then stopped, his hand on the doorknob. He glanced down at the box, which was rather sorry looking, and waved his wand at it. It hardened and took on a deep, chocolate hue as the cardboard turned to mahogany. A few inches taller, and a drawer added, and it finally became functional. He even managed to smile at his handiwork before opening the door and advancing out into the house.

The floor below was quiet when he descended the steep staircase from the attic, and the lower floors were still too. The back of his neck prickled uncomfortably as he continued down to the next floor. He couldn't help but glance around every couple of seconds, certain that one of the doors was about to fly open and reveal someone who would most likely be very unhappy to see him. To his relief, the bathroom came into sight on the landing and he sped up. Once inside, he was able to throw the door shut, lock it, and finally be sure that he could relax. He frowned at the small bathroom – it had a large, ornate bathtub with clawed feet and a tall, slender shower head, a porcelain sink with a large mirror above it, and a matching toilet in the far corner, which he selected as his first stop. The tiled floor and walls were stained and cracked, and the sink was covered with an unsightly amount of short hairs. Apparently someone had shaved recently. His lip curled at the sight of it, and then curled further as he took in the various toothpaste tubes lying crumpled on the shelf below the mirror, the leaking jars of moisturisers and ointments. The bath wasn't much better – a horde of shampoos, shower gels and god knew what else had been balanced on the side of the bath, all of varying levels of emptiness.

Still, it was a bathroom.

He set the box down on the edge of the sink and began to slowly ease his way out of his shirt. Even though it was black, he could tell it had several new stains across the front. He detached himself from it and let it fall to the floor, then lifted his gaze to the mirror. He found himself staring at a thin, pale figure, whose face had great dark circles around the eyes and lank hair straggling above them. A hint of blood lingered just below his nose from his meeting with the Death Eaters the day before. A large bruise was darkening on his ribs too, but it was barely noticeable compared to the blood-soaked bandages wrapped around his chest. He tried to avoid meeting his own hollow gaze as he undid the bandages and gingerly unwrapped them. He couldn't help gasping in pain as the material tugged at his skin. He only looked long enough to get the bandages off – as soon as he had done so, he unbuckled his belt and stepped out of his trousers and into the bathtub. He turned on the shower head and hissed again as the water made contact with his chest – he had to be careful when he touched the area. If he aggravated it too much, he would bring on another attack.

But the shower relaxed him, finally allowing the muscles in his back to lose some of the tension that had built up. He picked the least offensive-looking bottle from the side of the tub and rubbed the gel into his hair. It was good to feel clean again. Despite the state of the place, it was the best shower he'd had in a long time. The hot water beat down pleasantly on the back of his neck and he reached out to lean one hand against the wall, happy to stand there for as long as he could. He closed his eyes.

It was only when someone banged impatiently on the door that he pulled himself out of the stream of water. He stepped out of the bath and looked around for a towel – he didn't have one. He was about to simply get dressed while he was still damp when he spotted a slender cupboard in the corner. It contained several stacks of loo roll and, to his relief, a few folded towels. He snagged one and began to rub his skull, shaking water droplets from his hair. The someone banged again and he groaned. A muffled voice came from outside.

"Hurry up!"

He moved on to his body, moving deliberately slowly. Eventually he had to face the mirror again. He opened the box he had brought and took out a roll of bandages and some numbing serum – he knew better than to try anything decent. The serum barely did much other than stop the bandages from sticking. He dabbed it on carefully, wincing, and twisted awkwardly to wrap the new bandage around himself. It took some time to get the tightness right, and by the time he had finished the person waiting was hammering on the door once more.

Leaving the towel abandoned on the floor, he pulled his fresh – well, fresher – clothes on – a pair of trousers and a loose grey t-shirt. He wished he'd brought a shirt. He didn't like the idea of meeting whoever was on the other side of the door in a t-shirt – it was like going out in his pyjamas. But he didn't have another option, so he retrieved his old clothes from the floor, put his box under his arm, and picked up his wand. As the knocking began to sound distinctly pissed off, he pointed his wand at the old bandages lying on the floor and set them alight. They crumbled to ash within seconds, and he slipped his wand into his pocket before he unlocked the door.

"About time! What the-"

Draco felt his features instantly slip into a scowl as he emerged, recognising the voice before he even saw the shock of bright red hair. As gangly and red-faced as ever, Ron Weasley blanched at the sight of him. His eyes widened slightly and his mouth dropped open, and Draco felt a thrill of satisfaction at the effect he'd had. What made the situation even more perfect was the fact that Weasley was only wearing a dishevelled flannel dressing gown, which he clutched at to make sure was closed as he looked Draco up and down.

"Patience, Weasel," he said. "You really must learn to share."

Weasley's face contorted with barely suppressed rage. He drew himself up to his full height, the dressing gown slightly denting his efforts to look intimidating.

"Shut up, Malfoy," he growled. "I wouldn't get too comfortable – don't reckon you'll be here too long."

"As wonderful as that sounds…" Draco cocked his head, smirking. "Are you going to get out of my way at some point?"

Weasley began to move, and then seemed to change his mind and leaned forwards instead. Draco remained where he was, forcing the other boy to pull back again. A finger was stabbed in his direction.

"This isn't Hogwarts, Malfoy – this is Harry's _house,_ " he snarled. "You can't just do whatever you want – I won't let you–"

" _Let_ me?" Draco let out a bark of laughter. "Go on, Weasel, threaten me. I dare you. Now, where's Potter? I've got some laundry that needs doing."

As Weasley's face turned bright red with fury, Draco pushed past him and stalked off towards the stairs. It hurt, but it was worth it to hear Weasley spluttering, searching for a come back, and failing. The bathroom door slammed shut as Draco made his way back up the stairs, and he grinned as he climbed up to the safety of his room.

He had a cigarette out of the window, seated on the low, wide windowsill, the door to his room firmly sealed shut. The swirling plumes of smoke set him at ease, and he leaned his head back against the wall and listened for movement in the huge house. He still felt tired, as if he hadn't slept yet. He contemplated going back to bed, but his stomach was beginning to growl. His appetite had been growing increasingly worse over the past couple of months, but the shower seemed to have improved it. Still, now that he knew that Weasley was somewhere in the house, he wasn't too keen on going back downstairs. He didn't care about running into the ginger that much – it was actually rather fun to rub his presence in his old school enemy's face – no, it was more his wound that worried him. If he went downstairs and found himself having some kind of attack, he would never be able to bear the shame of it. He listened, cigarette held loosely between his fingers, heard the faint hubbub of voices and footsteps come and go.

 _And what if she was there...?_

But he really was hungry. And he'd be dammed if he let Weasel be the reason for his going without food.

So, finally setting his mind on it, he levered himself upright and rooted through his suitcase for something to wear. If his wound did start bleeding, he didn't want it to be obvious. He found a black sweatshirt and pulled it on, feeling a little more secure beneath the additional layer. Then he scooped up the almost-empty bottle of Nightshade – just in case – and slipped it into his pocket.

For a moment he stood there, preparing himself, pushing his hair carefully back from his face. Then, steeling himself, he pocketed his wand and made his way slowly out of the door and down the stairs.

 _ **Then**_

 _ **Fourth Year**_

Harry had disappeared to find Dumbledore, and Ron was not speaking to her. Hermione had planned to escape his great sulking mood by hiding out in the library. But it did not appear to be her evening – no sooner had she settled down in a corner, walled in by her books, a large figure appeared among the bookshelves. The frown etched into his face and his searching, hopeful gaze instantly filled her with dread, and she shrank down behind the books. It hadn't been all that long ago that he had dragged her out of the lake, both of them coughing and gasping for air. She had been quite happy helping Harry from the side-lines – she had no wish to actually become involved in the bloody tournament. But afterwards was when the real challenge came.

Soaked through and shivering, he had pulled her aside as towels were thrown over them. He had held her tightly by the arm, his dark eyes filled with a strange, wild kind of eagerness that instantly had her fearing what he was about to say. She didn't consider herself experienced in the intricacies of dating – or whatever she was involved in – by any means, but she knew that look. She had seen it on Ron's face before. Krum had shaken the water from his face and, then and there, in a heady rush, invited her to Bulgaria over the summer.

She honestly didn't know if she was flattered or horrified. All she could do was stammer out a vague response, doing her best to turn his offer down without offending him. But he had pressed on, assuring her that he had never liked a girl like this before, that she had to feel it too… And all she could think of was the Yule Ball, when she had been happiest out in the cool night air with someone else. Krum had not been happy with her rejection, and she had worried that he might seek her out again. And, sure enough, he was peering over the desks, squinting down the passages between the tall bookshelves. She sat there, crouched over her homework, trying to keep her face covered. But her hair was all too distinctive – she couldn't hide for long.

He paused at the intersection between a few bookshelves, just a few desks away from her, and she ducked her head behind her pile of books. He turned around in a full circle, and then decided on the corner the bookshelves were currently hiding. Her usual, preferred spot – he had been paying attention. She let out a great sigh of relief and sprang up as soon as he disappeared from view, cramming her books back into her bag. She was out of the library within thirty seconds, her homework crumpled, her books completely disorganised.

Her feet carried her down the nearest flight of stairs and around as many random corners as possible. She didn't care exactly where she was heading – she just wanted to put as much distance between herself and Krum as possible before he realised she wasn't in the library. The fact he had infiltrated her usual space, her favourite place to go outside the common room, infuriated her. She was going to have to go elsewhere now, or simply hide in the common room. And with Ron stalking about up there, she couldn't see herself getting much work done there either. She let out a groan of frustration as she reached the Great Hall. Nowhere, apparently, was safe from testosterone.

Her pace had slowed, mostly because she didn't really know where she was going. But she didn't want to stay in the castle anymore, and she was sure that wherever she turned now, her homework was not going to be completed that night. It didn't matter – she was already a week ahead anyway – but the interruption had messed with her schedule. Concluding that she could use a break from human interaction for the moment, she gave up on the idea of continuing work and headed for the great double oak doors leading to the courtyard. The cool air was an instant relief, and she sucked in great lungfuls of it as she wandered out into the grounds. All of the emotional stress from the last few weeks had caught up with her, and all of a sudden Hogwarts had come to feel extremely claustrophobic to her. First there had been the worry over Harry's involvement in the tournament, then the heady excitement of Krum's propositions, then Ron's selfish outburst at the Yule Ball, and then Harry had found Barty Crouch's body and the dangers they had been speculating about had become all too real.

And in the background, the whole time, there had been another presence. One that drifted in and out, one that she only ever ran into unexpectedly, but which always left her feeling lighter. And that alone was too strange to even begin thinking about.

The night was overcast with a fine, slightly damp mist which settled quickly over her hair and skin as she walked. It wasn't quite dark yet, although the half light painted the distant trees of the Forbidden Forest in shades of blue and grey. Behind her, the castle rose up with rosy glowing windows and bats wheeled and dived about its turrets. She paused to look at it, enjoyed its darkening silhouette against the pale evening sky. It felt quieter outside, and she was grateful for it.

She realised quite suddenly that her feet had automatically carried her to the Quidditch pitch, and finally stopped beside one of the tall wooden towers. She supposed that it must be because she often came to sit there and work when the others were practising – it was where she usually would have found Harry, had he not been busy. It felt different when it was deserted. Usually there was at least a small group practising, but now the pitch was silent, the wooden benches empty. She pushed her hair back out of her face, noting with some dismay the way it was already beginning to frizz in the damp air, and then with a sharp jolt caught sight of a figure on a broom high above her head. She had to crane her neck to even see him – it seemed to be a him, anyway. He was nothing more than a dark smudge against the mist, weaving in and out of view behind the clouds, picking up speed and then slowing down, completing complex manoeuvres. Practising, perhaps. Although practising alone – usually there was at least a couple of people trying out various moves together. She watched the figure veering from side to side, even felt a slight thrill of excitement as he underwent a tight hairpin turn.

Quite suddenly, the figure came to a halt high above her head. She could almost feel a piercing gaze settling on her, and shrank back slightly. It was too late anyway – she had already been noticed. The broomstick hovered for a little longer, obscured every so often by swaths of cloud, and then gracefully dipped downwards. It circled the pitch as it descended, coming closer and closer, until she could finally make out the shock of white-blonde hair, the pale, narrow face. He was wearing black robes rather than Slytherin's green colours – she hadn't recognised him from a distance. But now her stomach lurched, as if she were the one soaring, and she felt her face becoming hot. She gripped her bag furiously as he reached the ground and jumped from his broom. He had planned the distance perfectly, and when he straightened up he was only a couple of steps away from her.

She saw with some relief that the expression on his face was not particularly cruel or mocking. In fact, he looked almost relaxed. His hair had been soaked through by the damp air and had been coaxed out of its usual, neat style. His face was ghostly white, as always, but the faint smile that curved his lips seemed to warm it. And it was a real smile – just barely there, but with an honesty to it she had never seen before. His tongue ran quickly across his lips before he spoke.

"Are you stalking me, Granger?"

She had no idea why, but his words made her feel nervous and flustered. She tried to glare at him, but she couldn't quite pull it off.

"I was walking," she retorted. "I didn't know you were here, really."

He huffed a short laugh. "Don't worry, I won't tell if you don't."

She realised that she was smiling, and that her hand was clawing her hair back. Almost as if she was self-conscious, although she had no idea why she would care what he thought… Her mind was going in circles. She shifted her weight to one foot, fiddled with her bag, tried to think of something to say. He spoke first, rescuing them from the long pause.

"What are you doing out here?"

She cast her eyes upwards. "Hiding from Krum. He's been a little… persistent. Since the Ball."

His smile turned into a grin.

"He came into the library," she said. "I was just about to get started on that essay from Snape – you know, the one on serums and toxins. That's actually an essay question for fifth years, but luckily I did some extra reading during the summer so I think…"

He was shaking his head. She trailed off, uncertain as to whether he was about to launch into his usual self and call her a stupid Mudblood, but instead he was smiling widely.

"Granger – what the hell are you talking about?"

She considered the question and then shrugged helplessly. "I don't know."

He looked at her, and her heart jerked slightly. His eyes really were striking, now that she knew to look for them – a pale, piercing, silvery blue. And he was looking at her as if he was actually seeing her – not the books, not the Mudblood, but her. He looked almost scared. She felt her cheeks growing warm again and squirmed under his stare.

"You know what, Granger? Something's different."

She couldn't break his gaze. Her heart was beating very fast. She swallowed, tried to concentrate on what he was saying. "Different?"

"Yeah." He hesitated, his brow creasing slightly, as if someone had just asked him a slightly untactful question. "With… this."

He gestured vaguely at the air between them.

"I suppose," she said. She cleared her throat, wet her lips. "How is it different, exactly?"

"Just…"

He moved his head in a jerky, frustrated motion. Then he lifted his broomstick and moved abruptly forwards, until he was standing so close to her that she could count each individual strand of hair weaving back from his face, she could see the tiny droplets of moisture from the mist that had settled on his skin. He took a short breath, lifted his other hand. It hovered just millimetres away from her.

"Like this," he said, the words beating against her skin.

And then he bent his head, and she found herself reaching up on her tiptoes, and then everything was electric. It took until they broke apart for her to realise that his hand had come to rest gently against her neck, that his forehead was pressed lightly against hers, and that she had just kissed Draco Malfoy. They both remained still, as if he was as afraid to break the spell as she was, until she finally came back to earth and caught her breath enough to speak.

"I suppose it's different, yeah," she said distantly.

She was about to say more – she wasn't even sure what – but then his lips were brushing hers again and whatever she had been about to say really didn't seem important anymore.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading.**

 **Reviews are very welcome - nice to know if people are out there :)**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

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 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

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 _ **WARNING: This chapter contains some nudity / sexy stuff. Only a wee bit...**_

* * *

 ** _Now_**

Harry didn't have much to do with the actual planning and rebuilding of Hogwarts, but Hermione knew that he liked to go there sometimes. The castle and its sprawling grounds had been like a home to them all, but to him especially. They Apparated just outside of the gates and were greeted warmly by Hagrid, who was a daily volunteer at the building site along with the various architects who had become familiar faces. Harry and Hermione let Hagrid show them about the outskirts of the castle, nodding obediently as he pointed out the most recent work done, smiling as he pressed them to join him for a Butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks. But he was always busy, and eventually they were able to leave him to his work and wander off alone. They walked beside the shimmering lake and looked up at the hulking form of the castle, talking easily about nothing and everything.

By the time they decided to return to Grimmauld Place, she had almost completely forgotten about their latest problem.

Of course, her ignorance didn't last long. As soon as they made their way back into the entrance hall, stamping their feet to free the mud from their boots and shaking off their coats, she could hear the hubbub of angry voices from downstairs. She shared a worried glance with Harry, who looked thoroughly disgruntled.

"Well, better face the firing squad," he muttered, and made his way towards the stairs leading to the kitchen.

She followed. The voices got louder, and by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, they could clearly hear Ron.

"… prick. I mean, Harry _can't_ be serious. He was swanning around up there like this place belongs to him!"

"Maybe we could ask if there's somewhere else he could stay?"

Neville's voice, hesitant and quiet. Harry looked physically pained at the conversation taking place, his hand resting on the door.

"We'll ask Hestia," someone else – Hannah, it sounded like – said. "We'll get him moved somewhere else."

"Shouldn't Harry decide that?" came Luna's dreamy voice. "After all, it's his house. Maybe you could move instead?"

Ron scoffed loudly. "For god's sake, Luna, we shouldn't have to move!"

Hermione looked pointedly at Harry, but he was still lingering by the door, clearly dreading going in. She sighed and pushed in front of him, shoving the door open. She was angry for him – angry at all of them for being so petulant. They couldn't seriously expect to treat the Order's headquarters as their personal summer camp. She stepped into the kitchen, Harry just behind her, and lifted her chin as several pairs of eyes turned on her.

"Morning," she said, her voice falsely bright.

The inhabitants of the kitchen muttered greetings quietly back – Neville, Luna, Pavarti, Hannah, Dean and Ron. All looking distinctly displeased. Hermione looked around at them all, and found her gaze resting on Ron, who was glaring at her.

"Something wrong?"

He snorted, getting up from the table and crossing to the sink to put his plate away.

"As if you couldn't figure it out." He looked past her at Harry, who had quietly gone over to the fireplace and was leaning against the wall beside it. "I had the joy of running into that evil wanker this morning," he announced. "He's treating this place like its his house, Harry, it's not right."

Harry shrugged tightly. "We just have to get on with it for now. I know it's not ideal-"

"Not ideal!"

Hermione shot Ron a warning glance and took a seat at the table, folding her arms. "Look, _Hestia_ has asked Harry a favour. It's not like he's going to tell her to get stuffed, is it?"

"This just doesn't feel _safe_ ," Hannah muttered. "I mean, how do we know he's really defected? This could all be a trap."

Hermione bristled. "He's _not_ a Death Eater anymore."

Hannah looked back at her. "But how do you _know?"_

"You don't just stop being a Death Eater," Dean said quietly from across the room. "I mean, if he was going to gather information for them, isn't this the perfect place to come?"

"We have to trust Hestia," Hermione said firmly. "She's got her eye on him."

"She's not even here," Ron snapped.

An uncomfortable silence descended onto the small group. Hermione looked around at them all – Neville, Hannah and Luna were all avoiding her, looking at the tabletop. Ron and Dean, still standing at the sink with folded arms, looked as if they were about to announce a mutiny. Only Pavarti, sitting on the bench at the side of the room, looked torn. Harry ran his hand through his hair, and she could see his jaw working furiously as he tried to come up with something to say.

"Look, I know. _I know._ I've been up all night worrying about this. But…" he sighed heavily, looked around at the sea of faces before him. "But this isn't Hogwarts. This is the headquarters of the Order. And the Order needs to keep Malfoy here for now."

His words were met with stony silence. Hermione looked around resolutely, nodding her agreement with him, trying to lend him some support. She wished Ginny were here, but she must have gone to help George with the shop. She did so every now and then. Although she wasn't Malfoy's biggest fan either, she always managed to keep a level head, and was certainly far more popular than Hermione. Far better at swaying public opinion.

Ron was still scowling.

"I just… He's still got the Mark, you know? I saw it this morning. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater." He turned his back on them, snatching up his plate and beginning to rinse it off. "And he's still a royal prick," he added sourly.

"Only for you, Weasel," a cool voice said smoothly from the doorway. "Consider yourself special."

Hermione felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Even as everyone else flinched around to look, she felt her body stiffen and found herself staring fiercely at her own hands. Her breath had frozen in her throat. She head a short, humourless laugh, heard the kitchen door swing shut.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something?"

Slow footsteps passed her by, moving just behind her, and still she couldn't make herself look up. His voice was cold and filled with distaste, and she was suddenly standing in a corridor in Hogwarts once again. She could almost see his lip curling. Harry cleared his throat, hastily filling the awkward silence that had descended on the group.

"Malfoy, hi… Are you, ah, hungry, or…?"

"Why? Going to cook me up some breakfast, Potter?"

Her heart sank. She could almost feel Ron bristling furiously, knew he was clutching his plate tightly, contemplating throwing it. Forcing herself to snap out of her stupor, she slowly raised her head.

And there he was.

He had reached the opposite end of the kitchen, Dean shifting out of his way. He looked impossibly tall, his white-blond hair a little longer than she remembered and pushed back against his head. He was hunched over a little – or maybe it was just her imagination. And then he turned slowly around and settled against the kitchen counter, and his silvery eyes met hers. Her heart lurched into her mouth and she gripped the table tightly, terrified to hold eye contact, terrified to look away. His face was thinner, greyer, with huge circles around his eyes. Harry was right – he looked sick. His unsmiling mouth was framed with pale lips and his eyes were slightly bloodshot, betraying many sleepless nights. And yet still he stared regally down at them all, as if he had just been crowned king, and his eyes narrowed with the same icy venom from their school years. He looked away from her, focussing instead on Ron, and that old smirk chased across his face.

"Do go on, Weasel, don't let me stop you."

Ron was glowering at him as if he was hoping to set him on fire with his stare. "Why don't you fuck off, Malfoy?"

"Can't, I'm afraid," Draco replied calmly. "Why don't you? Or has that dingy little hovel of yours finally collapsed? Is that why you're living in Potter's kitchen?"

Ron drew his wand.

"Ron!" Harry darted forwards, moving quickly in between them. He shot Ron an imploring gaze, pushing his wand firmly down. "Don't, ok? He's just… being Malfoy."

"Hey, Weasel," Draco continued, folding his arms leisurely. "Make me a sandwich, would you?"

Ron wrenched free of Harry and pointed his wand again, his face bright red. For a moment, Hermione was sure he was going to curse Draco with everything he had. But then, after a tense moment, Ron threw off Harry's restraining hand, turned on his heel, and stormed out of the kitchen. She could hear his footsteps stomping across the entrance hall and the front door slam shut shortly afterwards.

The kitchen was quiet. Harry looked defeated, his face twisted in anger, his gaze trained on the ground. Draco looked slowly around at the room, his clear, silvery stare as cold as ever. Then he turned and opened the fridge door. She watched him silently as he inspected its contents and drew out a plate with a couple of sandwiches on it. Left overs from last night, she presumed. He shut the door and faced them, cocked his head.

"Can I have this?"

"No, actually," Hannah spoke up. "George was saving those for–"

"Great," he cut across her.

He looked at Harry, as if inviting him to argue, but Harry only shrugged hopelessly. He looked just as angry as Ron, but was being forced to rise above the bickering. Draco nodded, as if satisfied, and suddenly his silvery eyes were fixing on her once more.

"Problem, Granger?" he said quietly.

She stared at him, her lips parted, her voice shrivelled to nothing. He looked so terrible standing there, like a nightmareish version of his school year self. His frame was completely unforgiving, his sneer showing no trace of friendliness or care. From the hem of his jumper, she could see the tendrils of the Dark Mark poking out beneath his sleeve. She turned her face away, pressing her lips together silently.

He stalked past them once more, and she almost shuddered as he moved past her. She heard the door of the kitchen open and fall shut, heard his slow footsteps on the stairs. And, quite suddenly, she felt like sobbing. He hadn't looked at her like that since long ago in Hogwarts, like she was nothing at all.

Like she was just a Mudblood.

She dropped her head into her hands.

Across the kitchen, Harry sighed heavily and she heard a dull thud as he kicked the kitchen cabinets.

"Well, great," he muttered. "Well, at least it can't get any worse, right?"

The others didn't answer.

 **~O~**

The plate of sandwiches sat abandoned on his chest of drawers, and he sat on the windowsill sucking desperately on the end of his cigarette, glaring at them as they had been the cause of everything that had gone wrong in his life. His appetite had promptly vanished as soon as he had entered that kitchen.

There she had been, sitting at the table, surrounded by her friends. The situation was so horribly familiar that he hadn't been able to help reverting back to his old quips, and had even savagely enjoyed winding Weasel up. But she hadn't looked at him – she'd kept her eyes on the tabletop, as if she could think of nothing worse than looking him in the face. Until, that is, he turned to leave. Then she had looked at him. The expression on her face had cut him to the core. If he had been labouring under any misapprehension that she would be happy to see him, that they would be able to have some kind of conversation about everything that had happened, he had clearly been sorely mistaken. She had looked at him as if his very presence was crushing her.

He screwed his thumbs into his eyes, his cigarette still smoking steadily between his fingers. He had actually started packing his suitcase the second he had returned to his room, hell bent on getting the fuck out of Potter's house within the hour. But an unexpectedly bad twinge from his chest had forced him to sit down and concentrate on breathing, which had led him to a cigarette, which had led him to glowering meditation on just how shit the situation was.

Clearly she didn't want anything to do with him.

He couldn't blame her. She was obviously trying to start again, trying to get her life back on track after the war. And if she planned to have any friends, whatever they had enjoyed in the past would have to be surgically removed from her life. He had absolutely no place in her future. A thought which made him pretty fucking angry.

The room was small, and there was little else to do but eat and sleep. So, eventually, after forcing himself to eat half of one of the sandwiches, he curled up on his side and buried his head under the pillow.

He must have eventually fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew he was jolting awake and the back of his neck was prickling violently. He sat up, instantly feeling for his wand, looking around. The air felt suddenly thick and heavy, as if a thunderstorm were about to descend. It was almost too dense to breath – either that or his throat was closing up. He tried to breathe deeply but his heart was hammering hard in his chest, pulling him off focus. He clenched his teeth, tried to force himself to concentrate, and then with a great thrill of terror heard the unmistakable sound of a scaled body slipping across the floorboards beneath his bed.

He lurched up to his feet, backing up against the wall, bumping into the chest of drawers on the way. His wand drawn, he scanned the floor for any sight of the long, pale form and slitted eyes which still featured so heavily in his dreams. But seconds dragged past, turning into minutes, and the room was small enough for him to see that he was completely alone.

It was then that he realised the door was open.

The door he had definitely shut hours earlier.

He remained rooted to the floor for a good few minutes, trying to figure out exactly what had woken him, what he had heard, staring at the fragment of corridor he could see through the gap in the door. He felt like he could be five years old again, terrified of the huge wardrobe opposite his bed, waiting for the monster he was sure was lurking within to emerge. But he wasn't five, and his parents definitely were not going to come in and assure him that monsters weren't real. Rather the contrary.

He forced himself to move.

The narrow staircase beyond his room was completely silent, but as he emerged into the corridor he heard it again – a low, ominous hiss that sent a physical shudder through him. Again he froze, again he scanned the floor, again he saw nothing. But by now his nerves were well and truly jangling, and he couldn't simply slip back into the room. He had no idea what time it was, but the house was almost completely in darkness. The only source of light was the moon shining through the window on the landing.

He made his way slowly down the stairs, holding his wand before him, aware of how clammy his palms were.

It was as he reached the bottom of the stairs that he began to smell burning. Burning hair, in particular. It was the kind of smell you didn't really forget once you had smelled it once. He tried to silence the shallow, hard breaths currently rushing in and out of his mouth, tried to focus on listening. He thought he might have heard the hissing sound again, this time from behind him, from the attic stairs – but by now he couldn't risk turning away. The next flight of stairs was just in front of him, and he was suddenly certain that if he could just reach them he would know what was lurking just out of sight. He could hear a distant crackling. His feet carried him forwards, his stomach a tight knot of fear, his bare feet making no noise on the thick carpeted floor. He reached the top of the next set of stairs and looked down.

There, halfway down the stairs, was the figure of a human. It was very calmly making its way down the stairs, its pace slow and leisurely. And it was on fire.

He didn't dare take his eyes off it, didn't dare move. The flames were relatively contained – they didn't seem to be harming the stairs, the walls, or leaving any singes on the ceiling. But they were there – he could hear them, he could feel the heat of them. The body they engulfed was little more than a blackened husk, tendrils of coarse hair still clinging to its head, the remains of some kind of dress sticking to its back. The thing reached the next landing and stopped sharply. Draco clung to the banister like a lifeline, terrified to even blink. He wanted to shout for help, but his voice wouldn't work. Somehow, he didn't feel like shouting would do anything.

He swallowed hard, and then began to slowly make his way down the stairs. He kept close to the wall, as if expecting to hide from it. But even as he reached the bottom of the stairs, it began to move again. Down another flight, its pace still slow and steady, the flames still licking up around it in a blaze that burned his eyes. He followed it to the first step and stopped short, his chest tight. His wound was beginning to throb hard, and he rubbed a hand across his chest distractedly, still staring at the figure. It moved almost gracefully, and in an odd way there was something familiar about it. Horrifying, but familiar. He stared at it, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The slithering, hissing sound came again and he turned sharply, unwilling to take his eyes of the figure, but the old fear of that bloody snake sending tendrils of ice up his back. Nothing.

 _"Draco."_

He flinched violently, looked down the stairs. The figure on fire had stopped halfway down the stairs and was looking up at him. Great red bleeding holes gaped where its eyes had once been. Its mouth opened wide in a terrible, silent scream, the flames spitting and reaching high around it, and yet the voice that he heard was impossibly gentle and calm.

 _"Draaaco…"_

A grip suddenly closed around his wrist and he flinched violently, spinning around, his wand flying up. Just as suddenly, the heavy air seemed to clear. For the first time in what felt like hours, he was able to suck in a deep gulp of oxygen. He found himself panting harshly, gripping his wand, his whole body trembling, his chest throbbing steadily – and there, pinned against the wall before him, her wide brown eyes trained on the glowing tip of his wand, was Hermione.

One quick glance down the stairs told him everything he needed to know – the figure on fire was gone. Had never even been there. His knees felt weak and he reached for the banister, stuffing his wand into his pocket, letting out a shuddering sigh. He didn't know if he was relieved or terrified. He had had hallucinations before – small ones, brief ones – but never anything like that. Never anything that had seemed so fucking _real_ …

He realised that Hermione was still standing there, her back flat against the wall, her face filled with that same quiet wariness that he had seen earlier. He sighed heavily.

"Granger," he muttered.

He wasn't wearing his jumper, hand his hand jumped automatically up to cover his Mark. It didn't matter – she knew what he was. But still, he rubbed it awkwardly as her brown eyes roved over him, as her eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

"What were you doing?"

She sounded as if she had caught him trespassing in the corridors of Hogwarts after hours – completely cold, completely authoritative, completely dismissive. And he fixed his eyes on the floor, and considered the impossibility of telling her everything.

 ** _Then_**

 ** _Fifth Year_**

The sliding doors to their compartment suddenly opened, and she looked up only for her heart to stop in her chest. _On the train,_ he had said in his last letter to her. And there he was.

He had gotten even taller over the summer. His face seemed to have grown mature somehow, although in what way she could not pinpoint. Either way, the sight of him instantly sent electricity over her skin and she felt herself sit up a little straighter. His silver-blue eyes caught at her for a moment, and she only realised then how much she had missed them. His mouth twisted upwards at one side and she felt herself smiling before she could stop herself.

"What?"

Harry's voice broke between them like an axe, and she remembered with a jolt where she was. Draco's eyes shifted lazily over to Harry, his face taking on that familiar, lounging smirk.

"Manners, Potter, or I'll have to give you detention," he said delicately, leaning against the doorframe. "You see I, unlike you, have been made a prefect, which means that I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments."

She almost laughed aloud at how much he was enjoying the moment. Last year he wouldn't be caught dead doing school work – now, because he had something over Harry, it had become a victory. It was too ridiculous. Harry stared back at him coldly, his gaze narrowing.

"Yeah, but you, unlike me, are a git, so get out and leave us alone," he said, his voice deadpan.

The others laughed along, and she saw instantly the way Draco's shoulders stiffened. Some things wouldn't ever change, apparently. Clearly he still wasn't able to take what he dished out. His tongue flicked across his lower lip, and it was so familiar that she couldn't hide a smile this time. His eyebrow lifted a millimetre, a tiny challenge.

"Tell me, how does it feel being second-best to Weasley, Potter?"

Harry's eyes burned like twin lasers and she jumped in before any wands could be drawn.

"Shut up, Malfoy."

He looked at her, and she swore that for a moment that real smile appeared.

"I seem to have touched a nerve," he said silkily. "Well – just watch yourself, Potter, because I'll be dogging your footsteps in case you step out of line."

Harry's hands curled into fists on his lap and Ron reached for his wand. She leapt to her feet and darted across the compartment, snatching hold of the sliding doors.

"Get out!" she said loudly, fixing her eyes on him.

He grinned, and for a moment he refused to move, and they were so close that she could see each individual eyelash. His hand snaked out and caught at her front jean pocket, just out of sight of the others.

"Back of the train," he breathed against her face.

And then he had pulled back and she had slammed the compartment doors shut, and he was leaving. She took a moment to compose herself before turning around, smiling at the others, folding her arms. Harry and Ron had relaxed, although Harry looked distinctly worried. She shook her head, casting her eyes skywards.

"Never mind him," she muttered. "It's just Malfoy."

And then they were chatting away, and Ron was saying how it didn't even matter about Prefects anyway because it would just mean more work and less free time, and eventually she was able to slip out of the compartment mumbling something about the toilet. She instantly made a beeline for the end of the train, hurrying past groups of students, darting around packs of chattering first and second years. She had to squeeze around the trolley which, she was grateful to see, was on its way to Ron and Harry's compartment – it should keep them busy for some time. She reached the final carriage and glanced around nervously, suddenly wondering what would happen if someone caught her. But the train guard was nowhere to be seen and the trolley was blocking her from sight. So she didn't let herself question it any further, laid her hand on the door, and pushed her way into the final carriage.

She emerged into the luggage cart, which she had never seen before. It was piled high with larger trunks, brooms, cauldrons, cages – anything that would not fit into the compartments. She made her way through the shuddering towers, finally catching sight of the red door at the end of the carriage. On it in large stamped letters were the words 'DANGER KEEP OUT'. Her stomach fluttered and she glanced over her shoulder, but still there was nobody in sight. She was no longer quite sure if Draco had meant to come this far – perhaps he had only meant the final compartment? But she hadn't seen his white-blond hair anywhere. She turned back to the door, resolving to at least check, and headed forwards determinedly. She flicked her wand upwards and the door flew open.

Beyond it was a small platform surrounded by a waist-high railing. The railway tracks spilled away beneath it, bushes clamouring in on either side, and hills beyond those. The smell of steam and the roar of the engine filled her up as she peered out. The wind tore at her hair, dragging its bushy locks into wild, frizzy clumps in seconds. And, as she stepped out into the fray, he was right there. Just as he had said he would be.

He stood on the platform, leaning back against the train carriage, a cigarette in his mouth. He looked as neat and clean as ever, his fine white-blond hair flickering gently in the fierce wind while hers billowed like a sail. He glanced over quickly as she stepped outside and his cool grey-blue eyes seemed to almost flash in the sunlight. There was a fraction of a second where they both hesitated, and she saw his arms move to fold across his chest, as if in defence of an attack, saw him pulling back into his shell in uncertainty. There wasn't time to wait. She had to know, and she had been playing out this moment in her mind for the past few months of the summer. She could not let herself pass it by.

Firmly, decisively, she stepped forwards and reached for him, planting both hands on his chest. As he stiffened in surprise at her sudden invasion of his personal space, she wove between the cigarette and him and pressed her lips against his.

Her heart seemed to judder to a halt in her chest and she felt her knees shaking wildly. She had never – _never_ – done anything so goddamn _confident_ in her entire life. She was still soaring from the lift the Yule Ball the year before had given her, she was still able to find that new flicker of defiant sexuality which had flared up then. And yet, still, she felt like a newborn deer trying to run. His lips were frozen against hers, and she could taste the acrid smoke and then his warmth, and then her own stomach was hot and she felt her heart suddenly speed up once more. She broke away before she could ruin it and quickly retreated, surprised to find that she was smiling. The words dropped from her lips before she even knew what she was saying.

"It's so good to see you. I missed you."

He was staring at her, and for one horrible moment she thought she had misinterpreted the whole thing, that he was suddenly going to laugh and send a bat-bogey hex at her and leave her and she would be the laughing stock of the Slytherin house for the entire year… and then, without warning, a broad grin appeared on his face like the sun from behind a cloud and he reached out for her. He grabbed her fingertips and pulled her back, flicking the cigarette away, and all at once he was close against her and she could feel his body against hers, arms wrapped around her waist, his nose inches from her own.

"There you are, Granger," he said softly.

And he kissed her again, and for the second time in the last minute she saw stars.

 **~O~**

In many ways, it was the best year she ever spent at Hogwarts. Of course, she spent most of it lying to her closest friends and slipping away from Gryffindor Tower to meet him in any free periods or in the evenings, but still – she'd never had the chance to know someone as deeply as she knew him. The time they snatched away together was golden, even if it had to remain a complete secret.

He was good at skimming stones. In fact, it was there she'd had the idea for the Protean Charm, long before she had thought to use it for the DA. She had been searching for flat stones, teasing the worn pages of her Charms book between the thumb and forefinger of her other hand, watching his long limbs contort and lengthen as he span the pebbles across the surface of the lake. They had picked a more secluded spot around the side of the castle, but there was still a little sunlight making its way through the trees, and it dappled on his back and bounced off his white-blonde hair. He glanced over briefly – to see if she was watching, she knew. She smiled. And it was then that she had made the connection between the flat stone she was holding and the Protean Charm, sitting there in the book before her.

They had figured it out together, first only able to make crude, short words show up on the surface of the rocks, but after a while they had managed to perfect the charm. He was good at Charms, particularly when attempting to impress her. Eventually they managed it - when he held one and she held the other, they were able to send brief messages back and forth. Like texting, she thought fondly - only if she wasn't concentrating, the letters would sometimes come out garbled. It was nowhere near as discreet, nor as simple as the DA's coins would later be, but she was proud of the idea. Phones wouldn't work in Hogwarts, and without sending owls back and forth all day, there were few other methods of keeping in touch. But this, this was perfect. The rest of the day she kept her hand in her pocket, curled around the small pebble, a thrill racing through her whenever she felt it grow warm – a signal that he had sent a message for her to read.

For a long time after, the stone brought memories of the sunlight glancing off his hair and the graceful movement of his body as he tossed pebbles across the lake.

Unfortunately, it couldn't always be tranquil days by the lake and snatched moments in the back of the library. There were other issues to tackle - Umbridge, Harry's prophetic dreams, the continued uncertainty about Voldemort's plans. And yet, strangely, it was Quidditch which caused the most trouble.

Before the Gryffindor v. Slytherin match, she found herself taking an interest in the sport for the first time. Probably because she had never seen him so nervous before. The spare time they had when she could escape from the others he spent distanced and thoughtful, and she caught him doodling quidditch game plans in the corners of his homework every now and then when he thought she was busy with her own. And yet, whenever she broached the subject, he would only smirk and shake his head.

"The Gryffindor team has just taken on a massive liability with Weasley," he would say. "There's no way they'll win with him fucking everything up."

As harsh as his words were, she secretly agreed. Ron had failed miserably at every opportunity so far, but she couldn't bring herself to say it. She tried to encourage him, but she could see with every passing day the concern growing in Harry's panicked eyes. When she did find a moment to drop by the pitches as they practised, she was continually met with the rest of the team roaring at Ron to just relax, just grab the ball, to just _do anything._ She dreaded the match, knowing that the Gryffindor team was going to be crestfallen when they lost. Draco was anxious too, though – as the match day drew closer, he began to spend more and more of his time on the field practising with the others and he began to taunt Ron and the others more than ever. She didn't think it was coincidence.

She prepared to comfort the others on their loss.

Except then, out of the blue, Gryffindor won.

She fought her way down to the pitch, giddy with disbelief, swept up in the rest of the Gryffnidors who were tearing down the stairs to celebrate. The stands seemed to have erupted with a roar of victory and she could see Harry, holding the snitch above his head, his face split in a massive grin. She felt her own lips curving into a large smile – it was rare that Harry had the opportunity to be that relaxed, that happy. Especially with everything happening to him now. Ron was thrilled too, fists held aloft, bounding up and down with Fred and George. And yet, even as she congratulated Angelina, she caught sight of the Slytherin team.

The mood was distinctly less positive there. They stood in a rough group, glaring at the other team. A couple of them had already started to trudge back towards the changing rooms. Montague, the huge, shaven-headed captain was stabbing a finger at Draco, whose face was streaked with mud and who looked extremely angry. His face was whiter than usual and his lips were pressed together in a thin, hard line. He said something short and sharp, which made Montague's face redden, and then turned his back on the rest of the team. He was far away from her, and in the fray he was closer to Harry and the others than she… and as his eyes settled on them, she knew at once what was going to happen.

With a thrill of fear, she began to push through the crowd. It was difficult – everyone was screaming and leaping about in joy, and all trying to get to Harry and the others. She was shoved aside time and again as she tried to slip through. Draco's shrill voice reached her ears, high and tight with simmering rage.

"Saved Weasley's neck, haven't you?" he was saying loudly. "I've never seen a worse Keeper, but then, he was born in a bin… did you like my lyrics, Potter?"

Of course, she got there too late to stop the inevitable confrontation which exploded between he, Harry and George. By the time she got there, his hair was dishevelled and his lip had been split. Madam Hooch was already marching Harry and George away. Draco, wiping blood from his face with his sleeve, his face still burning with white hot rage, caught sight of her through the crowd. He stared at her for a moment, his lips half open as if about to speak. Then he scowled and turned on his heel, stalking away through the mud.

She watched him go, unable to follow, the roar of the Gryffindor team filling her ears.

That night even the victorious team was sombre. They had won, but as Harry reported he, Fred and George had all lost their places on the team. She kept her hand in her pocket, her fingers coiled around her Protean Charm stone, as the others sat about the Common room, the mood low. She had tried sending a message earlier, but with no luck. And it wasn't until the others were beginning to disappear off to their dorms that her pocket grew warm. She turned hurriedly into the corner, peeking down at her fist. She just made out the words.

 _Astronomy Tower._

She hesitated. Umbridge was already targeting them – she didn't want to get caught sneaking around the castle after curfew and put them all in more trouble. But after the terrible match, she couldn't bear to turn him down. She had to make sure he was alright. Her mind kept snagging on the way Montague had pointed at him and snapped something, and she could guess that the mood in the Slytherin Common room must be similar. Although at least they could celebrate the Gryffindor team being broken up in the aftermath of the fight.

After some consideration, she wandered over to the portrait entrance and pretended to be looking around for something on the floor. She glanced up a couple of times, but most of the team had retired by now. Harry, Ron and Ginny were still up and deep in conversation with a couple of other Gryffindors, exchanging rumours about Umbridge and trying to figure out how to get them back onto the team. She took a deep breath and then pulled the portrait open and slipped out into the corridor. She paused outside for a moment, listening hard, trying to figure out if they had spotted her or not. But no one followed her, and she breathed a sigh of relief and headed for the Astronomy Tower, glancing around huntedly as she went.

He was sitting there alone. He wore a black jumper and black jeans – the dark clothes made his hair shine in the darkness like a second moon. He sat on the very edge of the platform, leaning on the railings, his legs dangling over the side. As she ascended the stairs towards him the smell of cigarette smoke filled her nose and her eyes strayed to the bottle sitting next to him, almost empty. She almost hesitated to approach him, but she shook herself and made her way forwards. He didn't look up as she settled down on the floor beside him.

"Hi."

He took a long drag on his cigarette, his eyes fixed on the distant treetops of the forbidden forest. His skin showed no trace of the earlier confrontation with Harry and George - Madam Pomfrey must have seen to him earlier. She sighed and reached out, placing her hand cautiously on his thigh.

"Are you ok?"

He huffed a cold, hard laugh and blew a plume of smoke out into the air. She felt something inside her cringe and fell silent for a few moments, tried to think of something useful to say.

"I'm sorry about the game."

"Yeah." His icy gaze was focused on the stars in the distance, a furious smile twisting his lips. "I bet Weasley's thrilled."

She decided to ignore that. "Were the others angry?"

"Of course."

She lifted her hand and ran it carefully through his fine blonde hair and over his neck. Despite his rigid fury, he leaned into her slightly. She let her forehead rest against his, grateful for the emotion he was finally lending her. He held the contact for a moment, but then straightened up and took another large swig from the bottle. He offered it to her, but she shook her head with a small smile.

"Aren't you supposed to be celebrating?" he sniggered.

She shrugged, uncertain of what to say. She knew he wouldn't want her to explain away what had happened, or placate him by insisting that Quidditch didn't matter. She hesitated, and then did the only thing she could think of - she leaned forwards and kissed him cautiously. For a few seconds he just sat there, still glaring at the night sky, his face still empty, as if a brick wall had been put in place behind his eyes. Just as she began to think that she had made the wrong move, he suddenly turned and met her lips with his own, one hand moving behind her to pull her against him. He tasted like firewhiskey, and he was distinctly more forceful than usual. She hesitated, and then realised with a lurch of surprise that his other hand had moved downwards and was pulling at the zipper on her jeans.

"Wait," she mumbled against his lips, reaching down to grab his wrist. "Wait, Draco –"

"Don't worry, it's fine."

"No, I don't -"

"It's _fine."_

His hand pulled at her jeans, slipped down into her pants, and she suddenly felt anxiety break out in her chest. She shoved him hard in the shoulders, finally forcing him to let go, and scrambled to her feet as he pulled back. When he looked up at her his eyes were narrowed in hard confusion, as if she had just slapped him. She buttoned up her jeans again and took a deep breath.

"Just… don't."

"Why not?" he demanded, still staring at her as if she had just laid an egg. "Seriously, why the fuck not?"

"I just…" Her heart was beating hard in her throat and she didn't like the way he was looking at her. Confrontational. She swallowed hard. "I'm just not ready. For that. Ok?"

A cold sneer spread over his face. "Not ready? Jesus Christ, Granger, we've been tiptoeing around this for months – how much longer are you going to need?"

He pushed himself up to his feet, swaying slightly, snatching up the bottle as he went. His eyes had turned hard and cold as twin black pebbles.

"What, so I lose the game and now you can't be fucked, is that it? Got the hots for Weasley now, have you?"

Her mouth fell open in disbelief. She shook her head, trying to find the words to explain.

"It has nothing to do with that, for god's sake! I don't care about Quidditch. Why are you being like this?"

"Why are _you_ being like this?"

"I just… I haven't been with anyone like that yet. And I'm not ready. I'm just…I'm just not."

He stared at her, and suddenly the horror that what she had just said would mean complete and final rejection was overwhelming. She span around, tears leaping to her eyes, and made for the steps, ready to simply sprint back to the Gryffindor Tower and lock herself in her Prefect's room for a week. But his hands caught at her from behind before she could get too far. She struggled but his arms wrapped around her tightly, holding her in place.

"Stop it – Draco, _stop it!"_

"Wait, please, wait…"

His voice was different, and it stopped her from trying to get free. As she grew still he released her, moving gingerly, as if expecting her to suddenly disappear into thin air. She turned slowly, folding her arms tightly across her chest, ready to tell him flatly that she was just going back to the Common Room – but then, to her surprise, he was suddenly on his knees in front of her. His arms snaked around her knees and held on tightly, his head buried in her stomach. She almost fell over, thrown off balance by his tight grip.

"Draco, what…?"

"Mm'sry."

"What?"

He pulled away enough to look up at her. His face was finally soft again, and despite the drunken glaze in his eyes, he at last looked more like himself. His silvery grey eyes stared up at her, imploringly, and he was finally letting her in again.

"Sorry," he said again, a little more clearly. "I'm drunk, and I'm fucking stupid… Of course you don't want to fuck in the Astronomy Tower… Please don't leave, I just… I'm really sorry."

He looked so dejected that she couldn't help it – she laughed. Shock and hurt rushed across his face, and she awkwardly peeled his arms off her legs and made her way down to the floor to kneel opposite him. She took his face in her hands, smirking.

"You _are_ stupid," she said. "And drunk."

"I didn't know," he muttered. "I'm sorry for thinking... for trying to…"

He looked so upset - and, genuinely so - that she let them scrub out the last five minutes and leaned forwards, placing a firm kiss on his lips.

"If only you'd won the match," she said wistfully. "Then I most definitely would have had sex with you."

She laughed, and a reluctant smile made its way across his face. She pulled him down onto the floor of the Astronomy Tower and kissed him again, let his arms encircle her carefully. And, for some reason, the more she teased him, the more he seemed to relax. Until they were lying there, wrapped around each other, their laughter tumbling out into the night air, anything and everything else forgotten.

 **~O~**

A couple of months later she was trotting down the stairs after Harry and Ron, having just finished another unbearable Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. She was vaguely aware of Harry and Ron discussing Umbridge in hushed tones as she shoved her books back into her bag. When she looked up, blowing her hair out of her face as they reached the bottom of the stairs, she caught sight of a familiar flash of blonde hair moving in the opposite direction to them. She tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear, pretending to be glancing up at the window across the corridor. For a fleeting moment she saw a grin, saw pale grey-blue eyes.

"Look out, Potty, there's a Dementor behind you!"

Ahead of her Harry and Ron scowled, marching coldly on. Draco sneered back at them before reaching Hermione, ducking his head for the briefest of moments.

"Follow me. Quick."

His whispered words sent tingles down her neck. But Transfiguration would start in five minutes, and she hated being late… She shot him a frustrated glance but he only jerked his head before striding on past them, his hands deep in his pockets. Ignoring the uniform codes, as always, he had left his cloak off and was wearing only his trousers, shirt and jumper. Which gave her a fabulous glimpse of his arse as he walked away.

And so, of course, it was decided.

"Hermione? Hurry up!"

She had slowed to a halt, and hastily pawed through her bag a couple of times. Harry and Ron were waiting up ahead. She waved them on, calling up the corridor.

"Go ahead, I forgot one of my books. I have to get it!"

"You forgot one of your books?" Ron repeated incredulously as she span around and hurried back. "Hermione, they're like your children…"

She ignored him, trotting back the way they had come and rounding the corner after Draco. Students were beginning to filter out of the corridors now, getting on to their next class, and she felt a small thrill of panic – if she was late, she would risk missing the lesson objectives, and she found those extremely useful when revising later. Whatever Draco wanted had better be important. She couldn't even see him now. She stopped, turning right around in a circle in search of his white-blonde hair, but with no luck. Until, at least, the classroom door behind her clicked open and a hand fastened around her wrist, pulling her sharply backwards.

She staggered back into the room, only missing a nearby desk because he pulled her into himself rather than letting her trip. The door slammed shut behind them, plunging them into darkness, and she was abruptly aware of his body pressed up against hers, of his hands around her waist, of the heat of his lips coming down upon her own. It swept her away for a good few moments before she remembered that she was supposed to be making her way to the other end of the castle. She pulled away, unable to suppress a bewildered giggle.

"Draco, what… I'm going to be late! I don't have time right now…"

His arm moved and the two candles nearest to them lit up, offering them a little flickering view of their surroundings. The curtains had been drawn by the last class for some reason, which explained the lack of daylight. They were standing between the desks, some distance from the door, and he was directly in front of her. A smug grin was fixed on his face. For some reason, he seemed to be immensely proud of himself.

"I wanted to see you."

"But _now?_ I mean, I really have to go–"

"I know," he broke in, sweeping his thumb across her cheek and tucking her hair back behind her ear where it had come loose. "I know. But I just found out I have to go back for the Christmas holidays tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow morning!" she cried, dismayed. "But term doesn't end for another two days… And Angelina and Luna are going back tomorrow too, and they're planning a party in the Common Room tonight to say goodbye, and I couldn't possibly get out of it…"

"I know," he repeated as she trailed off unhappily. "That's why I thought I'd grab you now. Because I have a present for you."

"What?"

"Well, it is Christmas. Almost."

She watched with steadily widening eyes as he stepped away to his bag, which lay on a nearby table, and drew out a shiny, thin black box. A silver ribbon was tied around it in a neat bow. She took it when he held it out, almost speechless.

"But I didn't get you anything!" she protested after she found her voice. "I didn't know you were getting me something."

"Well, then I'd better take it back," he said mockingly, holding out his hand for it. He laughed out loud when she tried to hand it to him, pushing it back towards her. "For god's sake, Hermione, just open it."

"Now?" she turned it over. "We usually wait until Christmas day in my family."

"I want to see your reaction." He cocked his head. "Please?"

She stroked the bow, admiring its neat symmetry, and then carefully tugged it free. She opened the box and caught her breath, staring down at the dainty, clear jewel lying on the velvet interior.

"Draco… _Draco!"_

"Mmh?"

She lifted her round eyes to him, her mouth open. "This is… God…"

He stepped up to her once more, taking the box from her and lifting out the delicate, tiny chain. It was extremely simple in design, and yet it took her breath away. The chain was long and yet thin, and the single crystal at the end sparkled brightly as it caught the light. He held it up and she obediently pulled her hair out of the way – which took some effort – to allow him to place it around her neck. He fastened the clasp and held her by the shoulders to look at it, smiling proudly.

"Beautiful," he said, giving her a short kiss on the forehead. "The necklace ain't bad either."

She took it in her fingers, feeling its small points and fine edges. "Draco, this is… this is really…"

"So you like it?"

She nodded helplessly, her lips curving into a huge smile. He bent his head to rest his forehead against hers, and she felt as if she were being pleasantly surrounded by him. She linked her arms around his neck, enjoying his height, his frame, the soft hint of his scent.

"I'll miss you," she said suddenly, remembering that he was leaving. "Will you write to me?"

"Of course not," he said lightly. "You'll have to write to me."

She smirked and pressed her lips against his cheek, his jaw, his neck. For a moment she was able to simply be, simply hold him and know that this was what happiness felt like. Just being with him. Just being able to love him. She opened her mouth, the words about to tumble free, but then he lifted his head and broke the moment.

"I thought you were late?"

She gasped, snatching up her bag from her feet. "Transfiguration! McGonagall's going to kill me!"

She turned towards the door and then hastily span back to him, pressing against his lips in a hard, long, final kiss.

"I'll miss you."

His arms remained around her for a moment before letting her go, as if savouring it. For once, his voice was very soft. "You, too."

And then she was diving out of the door and running for the other end of the castle, tucking the necklace carefully under her shirt as she went, her heart full and her blood buzzing. And even though she was five minutes late, she couldn't help the smile fixed on her face.

It was only a little while later, when she was sitting in Transfiguration and realised that she hadn't written a single thing, that she understood something. She missed that closeness. She liked that closeness. It didn't make her nervous anymore – instead, somehow, it made her feel like she was coming home. And she didn't want him to go tomorrow, and she wanted nothing more than to curl up against him and never let go…

"Miss Granger?"

She started, looked up sharply. McGonagall was waiting, frowning at her through her glasses. Hermione scrambled desperately for what had just been said, and found that for once in her life she had absolutely, really no idea…

"Are you ill, Miss Granger?"

And there it was. Her green light. She wet her lips hesitantly, and then slowly closed her notebook and laid down her quill. McGonagall had never looked so shocked.

"I'm not feeling well, Professor," she said, inserting a slight wobble into her voice. She never had been a good actress, but she must have picked up more from Draco than she thought – the lie slid off her tongue like quicksilver. "I feel sick, actually, and… may I be excused?"

McGonagall nodded, gesturing to the door. She surged up from the table, piling her books into her bag, snatching up her wand, and turning on her heel. She was already running through the lesson objectives in her head – she would be able to catch up in the library the next morning with no trouble at all. She caught Ron and Harry's concerned gazes as she passed, shot them what she hoped was a convincingly pathetic smile, and then she was out in the corridor. She looked at her watch. Dinner would be starting in half an hour, but she wasn't hungry. Instead she ran straight to Gryffindor tower and tore a piece of parchment from her bag. She scribbled a hasty note to Angelina and Luna.

 _Sorry – not feeling well. Taking some medicine and going to bed. Really sorry. Wake me up in the morning to say goodbye! – Hermione_

She read it through before tossing it down on the main table in front of the fire. Then her feet had carried her up to her room and she was closing the door behind her, manifesting a quick 'Do Not Disturb' sign to hang on it. She shut it tight behind her, grateful that she had a Prefect room, and therefore did not have to share with anyone. She looked around, taking in the piles of clothes and books and parchment… she had some work to do. But first – she took the stone from her pocket and rubbed her thumb over it, feeling the familiar flood of warmth through her hand.

 **~O~**

He received the message just as he was arriving back at the Slytherin common rooms before dinner. It was very short.

 _Come to my room at eight. Don't be late._

He blinked at the fiery words rushing across the stone, trying to decipher what exactly that meant. It sounded very abrupt. Was she angry? The 'don't be late' implied she was anxious to see him, but the full stops felt like glaring dark accusatory eyes. He slipped the stone back into his pocket, frowning. But then Zabini was pushing into his room and calling him out for dinner, and he couldn't think quickly enough to come up with an excuse.

As soon as he sat down at the Slytherin table he knew she wasn't there. He looked anyway, flicking his eyes across the various ginger heads on the Gryffindor table. But her mane of bushy hair was nowhere to be seen, and he was slowly understanding that something must be wrong. Why else would she have skipped dinner and sent him a strange message with no explanation? He pulled their last encounter back through his head, but she had seemed perfectly happy. Better, even – she had said she would miss him, and her voice had been brimming with emotion and sincerity. And he had headed off to his next class feeling as if he were on cloud nine. And now, somehow, he had ruined it.

He picked at his food for a little while before excusing himself and striding back to the dungeons. He returned to his private room and retrieved the stone from his pocket, but there had been no further message. He hadn't even replied to the last. He considered it for a while, but he didn't know what to say. Instead, he tried to busy himself and set about packing away his things into his trunk. He wasn't sure how long whatever she was planning would take, and he was leaving early the next morning. He latched it closed four times before having to open it again and pack bits and pieces he had forgotten in his distraction. He glanced at his watch, but it was barely even past seven. He had a while to wait.

The hands on his watch crawled around infinitely slowly. By the time it was ten-to, he was almost trembling. He locked his door with a tap of his wand and pulled a jumper on, eyeing the snow flurrying past his window. He briefly considered just slipping past Filch and whoever else was patrolling the corridors, but then thought better of it. He retrieved his broom from its case under his bed and pushed his window open, kicking off from the windowsill. The rush of cool air calmed the sickness in his gut somewhat – he curved in a long arc around the castle, drawing high up into the sky, enjoying the snow peppering his skin. Then he turned and circled around to the Gryffindor tower. It took him some time to find her window – there were just too many towers in this damn school. But she had left it open, just as she always did, and there was no way that anyone else fancied a chill breeze in their room. He ducked under the Common Room window – the party, apparently, was in full swing according to the noise and movement inside – and floated up to her window. He took a moment to steady his nerves – god, what was wrong with him? – before rapping his knuckles against the window.

He heard her voice answer and laid his palm flat against the cold glass, pushing carefully inwards. When there were no shouts of alarm at his presence, he nudged his broom closer and scrambled awkwardly onto the window. He clambered down into the room, the window swinging shut behind him, broom clutched in one hand. And there he stopped.

The room was very dark. The only light was the gentle flickering of candles, candles which floated in the air, bobbing softly. The red canopies above the beds glowed in the firelight, the dark mahogany bed gleaming. It was like stepping into a quiet dream, warm and comforting, the great stone walls closed securely around them. She was standing beside her bed, which had been cleared of all her scraps of parchment and piles of books. She stepped forwards to greet him, her bare feet making no sound on the floor, her dressing gown swaying around her. Her hair was loose and bushy, catching the firelight like live wires, making her face seem impossibly small. Her eyes seemed even wider and larger than usual, lit by the soft flames, staring at him almost imploringly. She stood before him, her mouth in a serious line, and the air seemed to tremble with her nervousness.

"Hi."

"Hi," he replied, leaning his broom against the wall.

Whatever he had been expecting, it had not been this. He looked around, taking it all in once more, before facing her again. She looked anxious, almost scared, as if standing on the brink of a cliff. He stepped towards her, pulling off his thick jumper and tossing it on the ground, shaking the snow from his hair. It was considerably warmer in the room than outside.

"What's all this?" he said, trying to sound casual.

She lifted her chin bravely. Something about this was a leap of faith for her. He could see it in every line of her body, every flicker in her expression.

"I was thinking," she said, as if reading a speech from a book, "why I care so much when you fight with Harry and Ron. And I was thinking about why it makes me so angry when you don't hear what I'm saying sometimes, because you're really stubborn, and proud. And I was thinking..." She hesitated, raised her eyes to his face. Her gaze was piercing. "... I think it's because I care about you. I think it's because I look at you and ... And everything is different."

He blinked at her. Her seriousness was making him nervous. And he was pretty sure that most of the things she had just said were summarising his major personality flaws. He forced his lips to a smile, trying to read her dark eyed gaze.

"Oh," he managed lamely.

She took a deep breath. "Draco, you mean something to me. Something that I don't even know how to..."

Her face crumpled suddenly, and he was suddenly terrified she was about to start crying. He lurched forwards awkwardly and was beside her in two strides, his arms encircling her small shoulders. She wrapped her arms around his waist, holding on tightly, and her smell rushed into his face. He could feel a tension in her, an uncertainty. She took a few moments before speaking again.

"It's this," she murmured into his shoulder. "It's this. Don't you feel it?"

And he did. When she was nestled against him like this, he felt it. He felt like something in his soul was reverberating with hers. But he didn't know how to say those things out loud. Instead he nodded against her hair, running his hands over her back.

"Yeah."

She sighed and he felt her exhale move through him like a ghost. She drew back suddenly, looking up at him, as if searching for something.

"Draco," she said, and then stopped.

He brushed his fingertips over her cheeks, traced her lips. She leant into him as he followed the line of her jaw, cradled the back of her head. Something in his stomach was pulsing steadily. He put his lips to her forehead, tried to read the thoughts quivering there.

"Hermione," he said, whispering against her skin, "are you alright?"

She nodded. Then, suddenly, she had moved and her lips were pressed against his. His gut flipped over pleasantly and tingles spread across his skin as he traced her lower lip with his tongue, as her teeth grazed against his flesh. His blood was beginning to pound, and he broke away quickly before he could get carried away, breathless. He wasn't used to reacting so quickly. He blamed the candlelight. Her eyes flitted from his lips to his gaze, her teeth closed over her own lip. And then, suddenly, she had pulled at the tie of her dressing gown and it was pooling about her feet. He didn't dare break her gaze. He could not even move, hands still hovering just above her waist where he had moved out of the way. She stared back at him tremulously, as if waiting for rejection, her lips pressed tightly together. Then, when he did not move, she put her hands over his own and brought him down on the warm, smooth skin of her hips.

She kissed him again but he broke free, pulling himself back while he still could. He was in utter awe of her sudden confidence, and he knew that if she carried on as she was he soon wouldn't be able to keep himself in check. He caught her face in his hands, staring into her, hardly daring to breathe to disturb the air between them.

"Are you sure?" he managed, somewhat hoarsely.

She met his gaze, her eyes fiercely resolute. She held him there for a moment, as if letting something pass between them that could not be vocalised. And then she was diving into his lips again, the heat of her mouth travelling across his whole body, and her hands were pulling at his collar with decisive strength. He fumbled to help her, dragging at his buttons, pulling her against him with every spare second. His shirt was thrown to the floor and she pulled at him until the bed met the back of her knees and they tumbled clumsily onto it. His hands ran down over her breasts, her sides, her hips... He heard himself moan as her hands went to his belt.

"Are you sure?" He gasped again desperately.

"Shut up," she breathed against his ear.

Her hand closed around his length. And then his skin was reeling with gooseflesh and he was rock hard in her grip, and he could barely even find time to breathe as he rained kisses down over her. Somehow his trousers came off and he was lying over her, his weight on his elbows, and she was dragging at his hips and her nails were digging into his back... He was breathless and hot and the candles were a thousand tiny stars floating in the air around them.

Nothing else existed.

 **~O~**

Afterwards they lay together under the thick blankets heaped over her bed. She lay on his arm, held against his side, and she listened to the rapid pounding of his heart and felt the slightly damp heat of his skin. He was breathing hard, his face vacant, still showing a hint of the shock that had descended over him when he had realised what she was doing. She kissed his collarbone lightly and he turned his head towards her.

"Did it hurt?"

She considered the question. "Yes," she said eventually, and he tensed at once. She hurried to explain. "It's ok. It hurt a little but only at first. It was... Beautiful."

Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment, but he turned towards her, and he wasn't laughing. He pressed his forehead against hers, his nose brushing against her own, his breath shuddering over her face.

"Yeah," he said softly.

She huddled deeper under the blanket, tracing the lines on his chest. His whole body was the same marble white tone, as if cut from paper. Beside him her own skin was a stark golden contrast. He shifted restlessly, and then suddenly spoke in a great rush.

"I love you."

She kept her gaze on her own fingers, going over the words again in her head. She was reminded once more of how insane the whole situation was. How crazy it was that he had just said that, and how her stomach had exploded into butterflies in response. He let out a breath, his hands closing around her.

"I just... I needed to tell you. Because it's not just sex. I've been with girls before, you know that, but... But it's different now. And ... And I love you."

He stopped, allowing silence to break over them as his words echoed in her head. She felt as if he were waiting, but she couldn't speak. Not until she was sure. She raised herself her elbow and looked at him carefully, in the way she approached the huge old tomes in the library. He looked scared somehow. His lips quirked slightly as he returned her gaze, his silvery blue eyes flicking away and back uncertainly. His hair had come out of its slick style and she reached out to push it back gently. And then, as her fingers travelled down over his temple, cheek, jaw, neck, as she felt his pulse fluttering against her fingers, she knew.

"I love you," she said quietly.

He held her gaze. "Say it again."

She let out a laugh, a weightlessness soaring through her. A wide smile had spread over her face, and she knew that her two front teeth would be hideously pronounced - even after the shrinking - but for once she didn't care. She smiled hugely, fully, unashamedly.

"I love you, Draco Malfoy."

He lurched forwards and wrestled her onto her back, ignoring her squeals of glee.

"What, you had to think about it?" He said in mock anger, unable to keep the joy from his voice.

"No!"

"You only paused about a decade there..."

"I didn't!"

She tried to wrestle him off as he pinned her down on the bed, his face inches from her own. He was grinning in such an un-Malfoy-like fashion. His whole face was transformed when he smiled, like a human stepping out from behind a cardboard cut-out, like stones growing warm in the sun. And, just like, that, Ron and Harry popped into her head.

"This is so..."

She couldn't finish, but he seemed to understand. He released her and lay down again, facing her, his head pillowed on one arm.

"Can't they just not exist for a while?" he said. "That's what it feels like, anyway..."

"I know," she said, rolling over to look at him properly. "But they're going to find out one day."

"Find out?" He repeated, smirking. "Hermione, they believed you when you pretended to be trying out for gymnastics. They wouldn't be able to find their own dicks."

She slapped him on the arm, but she couldn't help laughing a little with him. It had been the most pathetic lie she could have imagined, but it had bought her a couple of hours with him in the school grounds, out of sight of the others. His face grew distant as he caught her arm, his hand spreading across the air before them in a sweeping motion. It was as if he was painting a picture for her, wiping fog away.

"When we finish in school we'll go away," he said suddenly, as if with a brainwave. "And we'll live in France, or Germany, and we won't have to answer to anyone."

"Europe?" She considered. "I couldn't live abroad. I'd never see anyone back here."

"Then we'll live out somewhere in the mountains, or by the sea, and you'll floo in to see them. They can't judge what they can't see."

"They're not that bad," she protested. "If you just got to know one another..."

She gave up. She couldn't picture a scenario in which the three boys tried to make friends and did not end up drawing wands on each other. Or in which Voldemort wasn't a very real and very dangerous presence on the outskirts of their lives. She felt his fingers on her skin and looked up at him.

"Don't frown," he said, more gently. "I'll try, ok? One day. In about ten years."

She cracked a smile. "So this is a ten-year investment, is it?"

He fumbled for words for a moment before simply pulling her against him.

"Shut up," he muttered.

She smiled against his shoulder. His smell filled her bed and she melted into it, her heart full. She poked him. He grunted, wriggling away.

"Draco?"

"Mm?"

"Happy Christmas."

He huffed out a laugh and rested his chin on her head.

"Happy Christmas, Granger," he said softly.

They were awoken by a steady thudding which sounded nearby, louder with every passing second. Hermione stirred, becoming aware first of the noise and then of the weight of Draco's arm over her waist and the pulse of his breath against her neck. She shifted as the noise continued, wishing it would go away and let her sleep... and then her eyes shot open and she jerked upright.

Draco was awake at once, darting up beside her. There was a flurry of blankets, a loud thud, and then the door to her room was flying open and a blast of red hair was darting inside. Hermione, still in the middle of trying to hiss a warning, squeaked shrilly instead and snatched at one of the blankets, managing to keep it from being dragged off the bed and baring her chest to the world.

"Wake up, wake up!"

To her immense relief, it was Ginny and not Ron who was greeting her loudly, and she remembered that boys could not climb the stairs to the girls' dormitories. They could, however, fly through the window with relative ease... She pulled the blanket up to her shoulders, arms wrapped around it tightly. Shooting a quick glance at the space beside her, she saw with further relief that Draco had disappeared. To where remained to be seen, although the pile of blankets on the floor seemed to be a likely candidate.

"Hermione?"

She looked up at Ginny, still pulling herself together. The other girl was blinking at her.

"Are you... naked?"

"What?" She squeaked. "No!"

Ginny looked pointedly at the sheet clutched around her chest.

"Oh, well, yes. It's just I wasn't feeling well last night... And I was quite hot..."

She trailed off helplessly. Ginny, however, seemed to accept her story if with a flicker of confusion. She darted over and bounced onto the edge of the bed.

"Well, anyway, morning! Where have you been? We're all downstairs, Angelina and Luna are about to head home."

"Oh, really?" Hermione cast around desperately for an excuse. "I forgot to set my alarm, I was... Reading."

She had some sincere thanks to give to 'reading' for helping her out of so many situations such as these. Like clockwork Ginny shook her head and rolled her eyes. She poked Hermione's leg through the blanket as she got up.

"Come on, then! We're going down to breakfast soon."

Hermione nodded dumbly until the red-headed girl had darted back out of the room. She snatched up her wand from the bedside table and shot a charm at the lock, letting out a great woosh of air in relief. There was a groan from the floor and she peered over the side of the bed to see Draco emerging from the pile of blankets, looking distinctly ruffled.

"Morning," she said, unable to hold back a giggle at the sight.

"Fucking hell," he grumbled, clambering back onto the bed and disentangling his legs from the sheets. "Thought she'd never leave."

"She was barely here two minutes!"

"Two minutes too long."

She opened her mouth but he sealed her lips with a kiss instead, moving his hand up over her thigh.

"Is the door locked?" He mumbled into her mouth.

She was going to protest and leap up to change, but his touch was sending tingles deep through her belly and she felt her body shiver hopefully. And it was the last time she would see him for a while... She nodded and arched her back to press herself against him, slid her hands down over his back.

Some time later the door shuddered as Ginny ran headfirst into it and Hermione darted upright at the affronted sound that pierced the wood.

"Coming! Sorry, sorry!"

She ran to and fro across the room, snatching clothes up from the floor, hunting under the bed for her shoes. Draco lifted himself lazily onto his elbow and watched, smirking in amusement as she stumbled trying pull up her jeans.

"Oh god, my wand! Where is it? Damn!"

He pointed at the bedside cabinet and her eyes fell on it, sitting in its usual spot. She snatched it up with a gasp of relief, dragged a thick red jumper over her head.

"I have to go, I have to go..."

He let his head fall back, looking at her smuttily through half-lidded eyes.

"What, no goodbye kiss?"

She had been halfway to the door - now she span around and sprinted back, her mouth colliding with his. Almost at once her legs turned to jelly and she felt like she was falling into him, like she was about to tear the jumper straight off again and -

"Hermione!"

"Sorry!" She shrieked, breaking away.

She heard him laughing as she dashed back to the door, flicked it unlocked with her wand. She turned back one last time before going.

"Promise you'll write?"

He grinned at her. "Promise you'll send naked photos?"

She opened her mouth to rebuke him - and perhaps, some naughty small part of her thought, suggest the same - when the call from downstairs came again. She dived out of the door and plummeted down into the common room, arriving breathless and red-faced.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

"Finally!" Ron said, bounding up from the chair beside the fire. "Let's go, quick, before she disappears again."

"What kept you?" Harry asked bemusedly.

"Reading," she panted as the she moved towards the portrait entrance.

Within a few minutes they were talking among themselves and her lateness was forgotten. And throughout the glorious breakfast all she could think about was him in her bed.

 _ **Now**_

Their first encounter really couldn't have gone much worse. Hermione tried to concentrate on her reading, tried to help Harry talk through his latest discussions with Hestia about the rouge Death Eaters, but she couldn't focus. Neither could Harry, really. The house, which only the day before had been so homely and content, was now set on edge. The others made their excuses and found errands to run or jobs to do which would keep them out all day. And without the rest of them around, the house was oddly silent and sad.

She ended up hiding out in the living room until night fell, and Ginny's voice came drifting up the stairs, calling her down for dinner. She hesitated on the landing, glancing uncertainly towards the stairs to the attic, but the room above her head had remained completely silent all day. And, somehow, she doubted that the others would be all that happy with Malfoy being invited to join them. So she trailed downstairs and sat at the end of the table, listening to Ginny's chatter, grateful that she and Luna seemed determined to improve the mood of the room.

She excused herself early and was in bed by 10.00pm, her duvet dragged up over her head, her wide eyes tracing the threads and patterns on its surface.

She listened as the others came and went, as footsteps hurried to and fro outside, as Ginny and Luna crept into the room as quietly as they could an hour or so later. She pretended to be asleep. She let the lights turn off around them and listened to the other girls' breathing slowly even out. Only then did she roll onto her back, pulling her duvet down about her waist, and return to her newfound hobby of staring up at the ceiling.

At about 02.00am, she heard the floorboards above her head creak. She might have slipped into a daze, half memory and half dream, but now she sat bolt upright and watched the ceiling with unblinking eyes. Her heart was hammering away in her throat again. She listened fiercely, and after a short pause, heard the door to the attic room squeal open. Stiff with anticipation, breath caught in her lungs, she listened to the slow, steady footsteps making their way down the stairs. They passed almost right behind her head and stopped on the landing outside her door. She gripped the duvet with both hands, her gaze trained on the silent door to the room, her mind a roaring blank.

But then the footsteps continued, shuffling softly along the landing and embarking on the next set of stairs.

For a moment she sat there, wrestling with herself.

Then, before she could let herself change her mind, she threw back the duvet and darted up to her feet. She ran to the door, opened it as softly as she could, and slipped out onto the landing. The floorboards were cold and rough under her bare feet, and the chill of the house held her there for a long moment before she steeled herself to continue. The house was very dark – he wasn't using the lights. She followed his lead, leaving the candles unlit, and walked to the top of the stairs.

As she reached them, her hand feeling for the banister, she finally caught sight of him. He was a floor down. He was wearing the same trousers as earlier, but the jumper was gone. The grey t-shirt he wore instead did nothing to hide how thin he was, nor the skull and snake which stood out like a burn against the pale skin of his forearm as he lifted his wand. She froze at the sight of it. She had barely really seen it – he was careful to keep it covered most of the time. But seeing him now, with it on full display, his wand drawn and pointed at something out of sight, he seemed a lot more threatening and a lot less like the boy she had known at Hogwarts. She couldn't see his face – he was leaning forwards to look down the stairs, as if expecting someone to come running up them with a knife at any second.

She had to remind her legs how to move before starting on the stairs, fear prickling in every pore of her skin. It was only as she began her descent that she realised that she didn't trust him anymore. She saw him in her mind once more, the way he had been immortalised – hair streaked with rain water and his face slightly flushed with the thrill of flight, his broom gripped tightly in one hand, his shoulders heaving as he regained his breath, his silvery eyes trained seriously on her as if she were the most incredibly confusing thing he had ever seen. Or lying there in her bed in Hogwarts, their foreheads pressed together, his soft breaths rushing over her skin. The way the corner of his lips moved and formed a strange, joyous little smile.

The contrast between then and now was so great that she could barely believe she was looking at the same person.

She reached the bottom of the stairs, now only a few paces from him, and he suddenly turned his head. She froze, still gripping tightly to the banister, and suddenly found herself wishing she had brought her wand. But as she looked at him, she realised that his eyes were glazed and blank, that his jaw hung slack. He was close enough to hear her, close enough to see her, and yet he didn't seem to register her presence. Instead, he flinched and looked sharply at the next flight of stairs, as if someone had called his name. He moved unsteadily over to the stairs and stared down them, still gripping his wand tightly.

"Draco?"

She spoke almost without meaning to, and realised too late that she had given herself away, calling him by his first name. Her cheeks flushed red at once, but he didn't even seem to notice. He was still staring downwards, his face reading an odd mixture of fear and confusion. She padded silently across the landing and into his line of sight, waved her hand slightly. He didn't even look at her. She hesitated for another long moment, and then, against her better judgement, reached out and took hold of his arm.

He jerked as if she had stuck a cattle prod into his side, flinching free of her and spinning about. His eyes finally focussed and he blinked fiercely, his wand swinging up to point at her. She stepped smartly backwards, felt the wall come up against her back, holding his gaze. For a moment, she actually considered screaming for help. But he wasn't attacking her – instead, he seemed disorientated, confused. He looked around, then down at the stairs, until finally blinking at her owlishly in the dark.

"Granger," he muttered.

The wand was lowered, pushed into his trouser pocket. As soon as it was gone he clasped a hand over his wrist, rubbing his forearm uncomfortably, fixing his gaze on the floor. His handspan didn't quite cover the Mark, and even though he twisted his wrist towards his stomach, she could still see dark tendrils reaching out over his skin. She stayed where she was, not quite ready to relax yet.

"What were you doing?"

He looked for all the world as if he had just been unexpected transported by Portkey to the other side of the country. His eyes strayed towards the stairs again, squinting hard, and then he shook himself and shrugged noncommittally.

"Don't know. Sleepwalking, I think."

She just looked at him. She thought she knew him well enough to know when he was hiding something, but did she really know him at all? Looking at him now, all she could see were walls. He was hiding something, she was sure of it. She found her gaze travelling down towards his Mark, and he suddenly tilted his head. When she looked up again, his face was distinctly colder, any vulnerability wiped away. The mask from their school years was well and truly in place.

"What, you want a photo of it?"

She folded her arms, trying to assume some authority. It did not have the desired effect – he smirked at her, mirthless and jeering. She was suddenly very conscious that she was only wearing her long t-shirt, which didn't cover enough of her legs for her to feel quite comfortable standing there in front of him. The golden image of being in bed beside him leapt into her head once again and she forced it away, hardening her resolve. _It was a long time ago._

"Since when did you sleepwalk?"

"Since now, apparently." He shrugged, raising his eyebrows in a challenge. "Want to go and tell on me? Go on, I'm sure Hesita bloody Jones can be down here in a second."

She bristled, catching her tongue between her teeth, doing her best not to rise to it. She couldn't understand why he was being so… so like _Malfoy._ It was as if everything that had ever happened between them had just been extinguished. He had pulled up the drawbridge and marooned her on a desert island. Once upon a time, he had been the only person she could be herself around. And now, he was just… just alien. She could feel her mouth forming a cold, hard line, and tried to pull herself together.

"What happened to you? I haven't seen you in…" she trailed off, shrugging helplessly. "I thought… Why didn't you get in touch?"

" _Get_ in _touch?_ What are you talking about?" His lip curled. And then, almost as an afterthought, "Why didn't you?"

She frowned, scrambling to defend herself. "I had a lot to do, there was so much happening and… I don't know…"

"Yeah, well, me too."

He bit the words off sharply and silence fell over them, uncomfortable and leaden. Everything she tried to say sounded stupid and pointless. She couldn't understand why he was being so strange, why he wouldn't just relax and talk to her… but then, she was being just as antsy. It was as if every nerve in her was jangling, as if the rug was about to be pulled from under her feet at any second. She remained against the wall, her arms folded, and the silence dragged on.

"Well, anyway."

He turned suddenly and headed for the stairs, moving slowly and gingerly. She watched him go, and suddenly felt the urgency of a last chance slipping away through her fingers. She made one final grasp for it, extended one final olive branch.

"Wait, Malfoy…"

The words wouldn't come. It was like trying to embrace an iceberg. One foot on the stairs, he looked over his shoulder at her. His face was completely devoid of anything familiar, and she found her words crumbling to ash on her tongue.

"What, Granger?" he demanded quietly.

It was only then that she realised she had called him 'Malfoy'. Not 'Draco'. Even though there was no one else there to hear.

She shook her head.

He looked at her a moment longer, and she wondered if he might say something, something to bridge the gulf which was rapidly widening between them. But instead he turned away and continued on up the stairs. She stayed there in the cold corridor until she heard the distant squeal of the attic door closing.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading, and to everyone who has reviewed so far. It's really nice to know that people are enjoying the ride :) Apologies if this chapter felt a bit OOC.**

 **Reviews, as always, are welcome.**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

* * *

 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

* * *

 ** _Chapter_**

 ** _Sixth Year_**

At first, she told herself that he was simply too busy to reply to her letters. She reminded herself that he would have barely any time to himself, that his family would be dealing with a lot. She had seen in the _Prophet_ that his father had been incarcerated for the business at the Ministry. She had always been very careful to avoid asking him how much he knew about his father's involvement with Death Eaters, but now it seemed the subject was going to come to light one way or another. She sent a letter to him, expressing her guilt and concern, but he didn't replied. She wondered if he had been angry with her. After all, the Golden Trio's actions had led to his father's imprisonment, and no doubt a lot of trouble among the Death Eaters for him. He had never spoken about it much before – from the little he had said, his parents were trying to keep him as far away from that business as possible – but now, with his father in Azkaban, he would no doubt be forced to become more involved.

She told herself that it wouldn't matter, that he would still be the same person, that they could carry on as they had been. He would understand that what had happened at the Ministry was just unfortunate. She forced herself not to think about everything that could be wrong. She was prone to over-thinking actions and reactions. She muttered to herself that he would get in contact when he was ready.

Only he didn't.

The summer crawled by. She kept in close contact with Harry and Ron, who were full of questions and thoughts about the coming year. Harry in particular wrote long letters to her about what he expected from Voldemort, about what they should be prepared for. Every line of his handwriting was laden with a quiet, understated fear of what was going to happen to them. He seemed to be aware, as much as she was, that they were teetering on a brink. This was going to be come far more complicated than simple school escapades. Perhaps his most disconcerting notion was that Draco Malfoy had become a Death Eater to replace his father. She rebuked the claim fiercely, but she couldn't deny that the possibility that it could be true scared her.

By the time she got on the train at London Kings Cross station, hauling her trunk behind her, she had not heard from Draco in three months.

She looked for him on the platform, but there was no sign of his shock of white blonde hair. She was swept away all too quickly by the arrival of Harry, Ron, Ginny and the rest of the Weasleys. They boarded the train together and she spent the journey listening to stories of their summer adventures. She was interested – of course she was – but she couldn't concentrate. Her eyes strayed to the glass compartment door every now and again, but she never saw him passing by. It was as if he had never even existed. She was so distracted that she barely noticed Harry slip out of the carriage.

They pulled their robes on as they approached the school. It was dark when they arrived, and she pulled her robes tighter around herself as she wandered towards the waiting carriages just beyond the platform. She walked at the back of the group, and it was only as she was about to climb into a carriage behind Ginny that she saw him. It was only by chance – if she hadn't glanced around just at the right moment, checking to see if Harry had jointed them, she would have missed it. But suddenly, like a spectre, there he was. He was wearing a jet black suit instead of his Hogwarts robes, and it made him look oddly formidable among the other students. He stood there, at the very back of the crowd, his hands jammed into his pockets and a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. She looked around for Crabbe and Goyle, or any other of his cronies – _Pansy,_ she thought, with a flicker of jealousy – but there was no one. He was alone.

"Hermione?"

She glanced quickly at Ginny, who was waiting for her to join them.

"I think I left something on the train," she said, speaking before she could think. "I have to go back."

Ginny frowned, her bright ginger hair catching at the wind. "Do you want us to wait?"

"No, no, I'll be right there – save me a seat!"

And she leapt back from the carriage, pushing the door shut. The carriage pulled away as soon as she did so, and the others began to move on after it. When she looked back over her shoulder, she saw the final few students piling into carriages behind her. One student was reaching for the last carriage, which still stood empty, but Draco stepped forwards abruptly. His hand flung out and caught the door, holding it shut, and his lips moved almost imperceptibly. The student froze, and then turned and hurried over to the only other carriage left, managing to scramble inside before it went.

Draco looked at her. And where once she might have seen a cheeky smile, or a daring smirk, now all she saw was emptiness. It was as if a stone mask had descended over his features, as if he had frozen each miniscule muscle of his face. There was nothing there that she could recognise. She couldn't see him anymore. And then he had turned and was stepping up into the carriage. She didn't see anyone go with him, and she lurched after him. She made it to the carriage, the last in the line, and caught the door as it swung shut. Even as she pulled up her robe and made her way into it, it was beginning to move. She stumbled into the nearest seat, and found herself sitting beside him.

He had the window down and was leaning on it, smoke rushing from his nostrils. His gaze was pointedly directed away from her, aiming out into the dark night. The fragmented light cast heavy shadows on his face, and his slicked back hair only made the impression of a skull all the more real. She searched desperately in those dark patches for some sign of recognition, but it was as if he had been reduced to a cartoon. Or a distant actor from film noir. As if he had aged several years in the few months it had been since she saw him last. She suddenly didn't know how to speak.

"Hi."

Her voice sounded so small in the stillness and silence of the carriage. She almost cringed at how pathetic it sounded. She wanted to look calm and collected, like him, but she couldn't. Words were already coming.

"Draco, I'm sorry, I'm sorry for how it turned out with… with your father – We had no choice, we were fighting back. The Death Eaters–"

"I know," he said shortly.

His voice was completely devoid of emotion, his tone clipped and brief. She broke off at once. He hadn't spoken loudly, but she could hear the tension in his voice. He took a drag on his cigarette and the smell of smoke reached her.

"This is the last time we're going to speak."

She felt as if he had punched her in the gut. She wanted to demand to know what the fuck he meant, she wanted to scream and shake him, but she couldn't. The air had been knocked out of her. He flicked ash from his cigarette, exhaled.

"No more letters. No meetings. I don't want any contact with you."

He still wasn't looking at her, and she suddenly became aware of hot tears welling up in her eyes. She looked quickly at her own lap. Her chest felt so tight, and she tried to force a deep breath in. It wouldn't work. But she had to speak, and eventually she managed to croak out some words.

"Why… Why? Is it because… because of what happened at the Ministry?"

He turned to her, at last, and she looked up quickly. His piercing gaze seemed to go straight through her. It was some time before she realised that he was fiddling with the buttons on his cuff, pulling his sleeve up. She stared in blank disbelief at the curling Mark on his arm. Her brain wouldn't accept what she was looking at, but she knew what it was. She felt her body automatically flinch backwards. Part of her really believed she was dreaming – none of it felt real.

"What…" she swallowed hard, still staring at it, even as he pulled his sleeve down again. "Draco, what have you…?"

"That's how it is now," he said, still in that effortlessly empty voice. "So you're not going to contact me again, and I'm not going to contact you. Nothing ever happened between us. That's it."

The utter grief that had overwhelmed her abruptly gave way to fury. It leapt through her veins in a way she had never known before. She had never felt so furious, and yet, at the same time, so fucking in love. Because even though he was saying it, even though her worst nightmare had just become her truth, she still loved him. And it was burning her.

"You can't be serious."

Her voice was low, trembling. He finished buttoning his cuff and pulled his blazer sleeve down, took another long breath of his cigarette. She wanted to rip it out of his fingers.

"It's done."

"What do you _mean_?" she hissed. "You're giving up, just like that? After everything… After– "

"I have no choice."

"There's always a _choice_ , Draco."

"No there isn't!"

His voice rose abruptly to a shout, and she flinched. She couldn't quite believe that he had finally responded emotionally to something she had said. It happened in the way that a wave breaks on the sand – his face crumpled violently, his eyes blazed with sudden tears, his jaw locked. His words, spoken from between clenched teeth, finally spattered out.

"This is what you don't understand, you little Golden Trio with your Dumbledore's Army behind you! Whatever you do, your family can run. They can go into hiding, they can disappear. My family can't run, don't you get it? Because he's _fucking sitting at our dinner table!"_

She stared at him, speechless. He let go of the cigarette abruptly, letting it fall to the carriage floor, and screwed his shaking hands into fists on his knees.

"I knew you wouldn't understand," he said, clearly attempting to return to the dissociated tone he had used before. "But really, it doesn't matter if you understand or not. If they find out about what we did, we'll both be killed."

"Draco, we can find a way to help–"

"Help?" he sneered at the word. "If you want to help me, Granger, you'll stay as far away from me as humanly fucking possible."

Lantern light fell across his face, and for a moment he looked vulnerable. She could just see the flicker of terror in his eyes, and his ultimatum became all too clear.

"What have they asked you to do?"

He just looked back at her. And then the carriage was shuddering to a halt, and before she could even open her mouth again he had shoved the door open and was gone. The only thing left of him was the cigarette butt smoking steadily on the floor beside her. She sat there for a while, completely still, trying to convince herself that it hadn't happened. But eventually, she had to do the only thing left that she could do – she wiped at her eyes, sniffed, pretended she had not been crying, and climbed down out of the carriage. They joined the feast in the Great Hall separately, a few minutes apart, and she did not dare look at him again.

Not even when Harry came in late, his face covered in blood.

 ** _Now_**

If at all possible, Draco was certain that he would have spent the rest of his life holed up in that dingy attic room if Hestia Jones hadn't returned to Grimmauld Place. After the disastrous sleepwalking episode the night before, he had decided to make a conscious effort to never run into her ever again. He would avoid her like the plague from here on in because, as she had so clearly indicated, she obviously did not want to know him anymore. So he had buried himself in the creaky single bed and committed himself to remaining there until either he died of starvation or the Ministry carted him off to Azkaban.

But, early that afternoon, Hestia's Patronus appeared at the end of the bed and spoke with her voice. It was some kind of stocky, small dog – perhaps a bulldog. Either way, it looked distinctly unfriendly.

 _"Mr. Malfoy – I'm waiting for you in the drawing room. Do hurry."_

He glared at the Patronus until it disappeared. He dragged himself upright, clawing both hands through his dishevelled hair, wincing as his chest seared with the movement. It was throbbing violently today, and the headache was back with a vengeance. He reached blindly for the bottle of Nightshade on his bedside table and took a few sips from it, closed his eyes until the pain faded and a hazy fog descended on him like a mist. He couldn't take too much – he didn't want to risk getting too drowsy and screwing up during his interrogation – but still, he slipped the bottle into his pocket before dragging on his jumper and making his slow way downstairs.

He passed Hannah Abbot on the third floor. Her face paled significantly at the sight of him and she stopped in her tracks, as if considering actually running. He shot her a sneer.

"Boo," he muttered, pushing past her.

He could feel her eyes on the back of his head as he continued on his way.

Hestia Jones was, indeed, waiting in the drawing room. The room itself was similarly shabby, yet with a slightly greater touch of the grandeur that must have once rested over the whole house. A dusty piano stood in one corner, and a faded family tree took up one wall. Several names had been burned off. The opposite wall was taken up by a set of huge bay windows which overlooked the street. Hestia was seated at the glossy mahogany table, scribbling on a piece of parchment, a large black owl sitting on her shoulder. Her hair was still in its stern, unforgiving ponytail. She glanced up ambivalently as he entered.

"Ah, there you are," she said, as if welcoming someone into her own personal office. "Sit down."

He didn't much like being spoken to as if he were back at Hogwarts. But the walk downstairs had made his head hurt once more, and he was beginning to feel dizzy. He pulled out one of the chairs opposite her and sat down, glaring sulkily at his own fingernails. She continued to write, her brow furrowed, her quill flying across the paper. As the silence dragged on he glanced at the page, but his vision was slightly blurry after the Nightshade – he couldn't make out the words.

Eventually, she straightened up and rolled the parchment up into a thin scroll, which she attached to her owl's leg. She stood up and carried it to the window, and with two beats of its huge wings it was soaring out into the open air. Dusting off her hands, Hestia returned to the table and smiled pleasantly at him as she sat down again.

"Well, how are you settling in, Malfoy?"

He glared at her. "When can I leave?"

"That well?" she smiled, and he got the feeling she enjoyed his discomfort. "Well, it really depends on you, doesn't it?"

He bit back a sharp retort and lapsed into silence, refusing to give her the satisfaction of having him speak first. She watched him for a long time, rolling her quill thoughtfully between her thumb and forefinger, her lips twitching into an infuriating smile from time to time. After a couple of minutes of stubborn silence, she eventually spoke up.

"So, how about you tell me what you've been doing all this time? You must have known the Ministry was trying to contact you. Why didn't you respond?"

He turned the question over, searching for any traps she might be hiding in her words before replying.

"I've been around. I realised that there were Death Eaters that had survived the war, and I knew they would be after me. So I kept on the move."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"And your parents?"

He felt something inside him lurch unpleasantly, and schooled his features into stoic emptiness before trusting himself to reply.

"I think my father was planning to go to Romania. To stay with family."

"Why didn't you go?"

Again, the unpleasant lurch, accompanied with a sharp stab of pain in his chest. He suppressed a flinch and realised too late that his hand had automatically jumped towards his wound. He pretended to be scratching his shoulder instead, avoiding her shrewd gaze.

"We weren't getting on very well."

He waited, terrified that she would pursue the subject, but she seemed satisfied. She wrote something down in her notebook, which had been produced from a pocket as he was speaking. She paused, as if re-reading her notes, and then glanced up once more with a cool smile.

"And what was your plan?"

He looked at her blankly. "My plan?"

"You didn't go to Romania. You didn't register to attend Hogwarts next year to finish your education. What _were_ you planning to do?"

The question stalled him. Since he had become aware of the full effects of his wound – once he had done some research and realised exactly how shit his chances of survival had just become – he hadn't really had a plan. His plan had revolved around finding places to stay, keeping his condition under wraps, and sourcing Nightshade Scortia. He hadn't had the time or energy to come up with any long term goals. But he couldn't explain any of that without giving away his ailment, and he didn't much fancy that. Either his pride wouldn't allow it, or he didn't want them to have any more knowledge about him than was absolutely necessary.

In the end, he just shrugged.

Hestia's eyebrow twitched, but she moved on smoothly. If she sensed he was hiding something – which she most certainly did – she clearly didn't care to dwell on it now. Instead, she made a short note and continued.

"And how many times have you met up with your old friends since the Battle of Hogwarts?"

He scowled. "Zero. I haven't seen any of them."

"Apart from that time in the alleyway?"

"Obviously, apart from then."

She leaned forwards, clasping her hands before her. "What's their problem with you, hmm?"

He stared at her. "As if you don't know."

She smiled. "Enlighten me."

A sigh of frustration forced itself between his teeth. His headache was beginning to pound and he cradled his head in one hand, pinched the bridge of his nose.

"They were pissed that I switched sides. They consider me a traitor."

"We have that in common." She smirked as he glanced up at her, cocked her head slightly. "I have a rule, you know – if both sides are calling the same person a liar, its because they're just that: a liar. Only out for their own skins. Which makes them particularly slippery. They'll say whatever they have to if it means personal gain."

"I'm answering your questions."

"So you are." She made a note. "You know, Potter seems to have reason to believe that you were somewhat of a reluctant Death Eater. But all the same, as far as I'm concerned, if you're a silent bystander, you're part of the problem."

She looked up sharply, and her eyes seemed to flash with something more personal and venomous than the cool authority she had displayed so far. He ran his tongue across his lips, waiting for her to continue.

"I mean, how about instead of listing whatever you _didn't_ do, we start talking about what you _did_ do?"

She held up her hand, ticking off her fingers as she spoke, her brow furrowed in mock consideration. His temper began to boil but he fought to remain calm, trying not to rise to her bait.

"So – sixth year of Hogwarts. You curse a fellow student, Katie Bell. You cast the Imperius curse on Madam Rosmerta. You poison Ronald Weasley. Am I forgetting anything… Ah, yes." Her eyes narrowed. "You orchestrate the murder of Albus Dumbledore by enabling a large group of Death Eaters to enter Hogwarts School."

"I didn't have a choice," he said quietly, trying to control the furious tremor lurking in his voice. "I was under pressure from Voldemort himself to act – if I'd refused, he would have killed my parents. And Snape killed Dumbledore – part of their master plan, so I hear."

"And once Voldemort returned to power," she continued briskly, completely disregarding his interjection, "you were observed on several occasions taking part in Death Eater activity. Abductions, torture, intimidation… For example, do you deny that you aided your fellow Death Eaters in kidnapping Miss Luna Lovegood from her home and blackmailing her father into turning Potter over to you?"

He said nothing. She scribbled more details into her notepad and sighed, reading over the list she had made so far.

"Not looking great, is it?" she summarised. "In fact, the only thing you really have to show for yourself is abstaining from the fight during the Battle of Hogwarts. Very brave."

He had to physically catch his tongue between his teeth to prevent himself from snapping at her. She was watching him, and he knew that she was waiting for some clue, some slip up which would give him away. He gritted his teeth and glared back at her in silence. She raised her shoulders in a brief shrug.

"So, basically, you could do with some gold stars. Because, right now, if you go into court, you'd be looking at a couple of years in Azkaban, minimum."

She slipped a sheet of paper from her notepad and pushed it across the table towards him. He took it, squinted at it. His head was still hurting, and his vision had grown even worse. He had to blink hard to bring the words into focus, finally recognising it as a list of names. Hestia pointed the end of her quill towards him.

"That's a list of all the Death Eaters we know of who are still alive."

"And?"

" _And_ – is there anyone missing?"

He looked from the note to her and back again. The letters wavered before his eyes – he could barely even read it, let alone cast his mind back to who he had or hadn't seen killed in the final Battle.

"How should I know? I told you, I haven't seen them since. I saw the names in the _Prophet_ obituaries, like everyone else."

"Well, perhaps you could have a little think," she said smoothly, rising to her feet. "And come up with whatever information you might have about the people on that bit of paper."

She tucked her notepad away and caught up her cloak, shaking it out. He stared at her in confusion.

"What, that's it?"

"I'll be back tomorrow," she said, dusting lint from her shoulder. "That should give you enough time to come up with a few ideas, hmm?"

He opened his mouth to tell her, for what felt like the hundredth time, that there was nothing he could even say. But he knew his words would fall on death ears, and he shut his mouth again, glaring at the piece of paper in front of him. She pulled her cloak straight and fixed him with an icy stare, all trace of nonchalant niceties extinguished in an instant.

"I suggest you find a way to be useful," she said. "The Ministry doesn't like to play games."

She swept past him and out into the corridor, and a few moments later he heard the front door close. He crumpled the note between his fingers, the names blurring into indecipherable blotches. His head still hurt, the steady throbs in the back of his skull pounding like a drum. He sat there for a while longer, trying to decipher the fuzzy ink, but eventually the stabbing pain spread to his temples and he began to get nervous. He reached into his pocket and took out the bottle of Nightshade. He uncorked it and drank a little, pressed his fists against his forehead until the throbbing began to subside.

Eventually, it lessened enough for him to get up from the table. He shoved the scrap of paper into his pocket and headed out into the corridor. The only thing in his mind was getting back up to the attic room and going back to sleep, but as he cleared the stairs up to the first floor he heard the drumming of footsteps and voices from above his head. People coming down. He swore under his breath, considered just pressing on, and then shook his head and ducked into the living room before they could reach the landing and find him. Thankfully, it was empty. He shut the door behind him and backed away from it, keeping against the wall, listening.

The footsteps and voices rattled past the door and onwards downstairs.

Letting out a sigh of relief, he turned away from the door and raked a hand through his hair. His chest suddenly burned violently and he let out a gasp of pain, felt his knees tremble. His hand went automatically to his pocket for the bottle, but he'd already had too much – he couldn't risk falling asleep there in the living room. Instead, he forced his shaking legs to carry him over to the sofa and sat down heavily, rubbing his chest. The pain came again in another angry wave and he screwed his eyes shut tightly, let out a moan, prepared for the first of the convulsions to hit – it must be another attack starting…

Something warm and soft suddenly rubbed itself against his knuckles. He jumped, distracted momentarily, and found himself looking down at a squashed, furry, ginger face. It blinked at him and then climbed up onto his lap, stretched its front legs, and settled down. He trailed his fingers through its long, matted fur, and the warmth of the small body nestled against him was surprisingly comforting. So much so, that the pain seemed to be receding slightly, ebbing out of him like water. He leaned his head back against the sofa cushions and listened to the cat's throaty, motorbike purrs.

"Hello, cat," he muttered, smirking slightly.

A brief memory floated to the surface of his mind – Crookshanks curled on Hermione's lap, her hand absentmindedly smoothing the fur on its back as she read. He had never seen an uglier animal and yet, for some reason, she seemed to think the world of it. It had never thought much of him at Hogwarts – it had spent most of its time wandering the grounds or sleeping in the Gryffindor common room anyway. And yet here it was now, perhaps the first friendly face he had seen in six months.

It sat on his lap and continued to purr.

For some reason, it seemed to have helped. His chest still ached and his head still felt fragile, but considerably less so. After a few tranquil moments on the sofa, he lifted his head and looked around.

The living room was filled with a mismatch of furniture and objects. There was a large desk against one wall, on which stood a cage with a Jigglypuff inside. Two large sofas took up most of the room, along with a couple armchairs – all faced towards one wall, which had once given a fireplace prime of place. Now, instead, a grey box with a screen on the front rested on a coffee table, surrounded by slender plastic boxes. He recognised it as some kind of muggle device, although why Potter had set one up here was beyond him. On either side of the fireplace were two large bookcases, housing an impressive collection of classical volumes. He could make out a couple of them from across the room, and as he was scanning the titles realised that his vision must be coming back. He felt in his pocket for the parchment from Hestia and drew it out – ignoring the disgruntled noise Crookshanks made – and read the list of names.

 _Augustus Rookwood (imprisoned)_

 _Jugson_

 _Theodore Nott_

 _Goyle Snr. (imprisoned)_

 _Selwyn_

 _Travers_

 _Yaxley (imprisoned)_

 _Rodolphus Lestrange (imprisoned)_

 _Lucius Malfoy_

 _Draco Malfoy_

His gaze remained on the last name for a while. He knew that Hestia had added he and his father on last to make a point. Some kind of attempt at intimidating him. He wasn't sure exactly what they thought he was hiding – they seemed to believe that he had defected, and yet they did not exactly trust him either. He read the list again.

Yaxley, Goyle Snr., Lestrange, Rookwood – all imprisoned. All an older generation of Death Eaters. The others were younger, either in his year or a couple of years older. He knew all of them. Nott in particular. Jugson, perhaps least. Selwyn and Travers had led the expedition to the Lovegood's to take Luna. He didn't see any of them as leaders, or coherent enough to put together a plan. But then, the continued Death Eater activity over the last few months had not been all that careful – just the occasional attack on a confused muggle or two.

And, if he thought about it, he was pretty sure at least one of the Death Eaters in the alleyway had been Travers. Travers never had liked him much.

He dropped his hand, trying to figure out what to do. Hestia was quite clearly backing him into a corner. Any more silence on his part would probably result in some kind of escalation in their interrogation techniques. She probably already knew who the other Death Eaters were – she just wanted proof. He considered writing down what he knew about each of them, but he doubted there was anything he could say that they didn't already know. All Hestia really wanted was for him to tell them where the Death Eaters were now meeting, and that he honestly didn't know.

His eyes strayed to his own name at the bottom of the list, and his lip curled – he shoved the note into his pocket, scowling.

He didn't want to think about Hestia Jones anymore.

He pushed his way up from the sofa, dislodging Crookshanks from his knee, and headed over to the bookcase. It had caught his interest, and offered a decent distraction from the thoughts tumbling over one another in his head. The collection was old but extremely varied. The books must have belonged to a family at one point – they were all stamped with the same crest. Vaguely familiar. He retrieved a volume from the top shelf and read the title, printed in gold embossed letters across the front. _Practical Applications of Advanced Potions and Chemistry._ He found himself smiling. It would do for some light reading. Just as he was turning around, about to head back to the sofa, the living room door opened.

He had been so engrossed in the books that he had completely neglected to listen out for voices. And, just his luck, he looked up from the book to find a group of people making their way into the room. He recognised most of them as Gryffindors – Abbot, Thomas, Finnigan and there at the back, Ginny Weasley. His stomach sank. They hadn't noticed him yet, still talking to one another.

"… here? Do you think they're ransoming him?"

"They're obviously trying to offer him some kind of deal to snitch on the others," Abbot said, wrinkling her nose.

"How do we know he's not just going to snitch on us?"

"Because, dipshit, if I wanted to snitch on you you'd be dead already."

He was at least able to enjoy the way they all started and flinched around, all completely taken by surprise. He cocked his head, his lip curling and his eyes narrowing automatically as their faces hardened. Finnigan actually curled his hands into fists, as if ready for a physical fight.

"Snooping around Harry's stuff, are you Malfoy?" Abbot said, folding her arms. "Who said you could go poking through things that don't belong to you?"

"Oh, no one," he said brightly, tucking the book under his arm. "I just like to help myself."

The venom in their eyes was tangible. He walked decisively forwards to move past them, and they shifted out of the way almost at once – apart from Finnigan, who slammed one hand into the doorframe and blocked his path. Draco turned his head slowly and looked at the other boy. Finnigan was shorter than he, but he was squaring up to him all the same, his eyes dangerously narrowed.

"You better wipe that smug look off your face, Malfoy," Finnigan said, his voice low. "This isn't a game."

Draco raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Oh, it's not?"

Finnigan's jaw tightened. "People died in that war. And you helped. You're still a fucking Death Eater in my book."

"Don't think the Ministry really cares about your book, Paddy," Draco replied coldly. "Slow introduction, anticlimactic ending, you know."

"You know what, you can joke around as much as you like," Finnigan snarled. "You can act like it's all a big joke. But you know what you can't get out of? The fact that this all started because of you. Because you killed Albus Dumbledore."

Before Finnigan had finished speaking, the pain had made an abrupt return. It was spiking fiercely in his chest and head and he knew without a doubt that he had barely a couple of minutes before it struck. He ran his tongue across his lips, and then narrowed his eyes at the hand that blocked his way. He had grown rather good at simple wandless magic over the last year, and it didn't take much to generate a spark of electricity. He shoved Finnigan firmly as the other boy flinched away from the doorframe, and strode out into the corridor. Finnigan made a grab for him as he went by and he twisted free, drew his wand as he turned. Finnigan was already aiming his own, his nostrils flaring.

"Go on then, Paddy," Draco growled.

Finnigan's eyes narrowed - and Ginny Weasley appeared between them, pushing Finnigan's arm down and forcing him into the living room. She shot Draco a sharp glare, her tone firm and authoritative.

"Do me a favour and piss off, ok Malfoy?"

She drove Finnigan into the living room and the door slammed shut behind them. Draco was only too happy to turn his back and pull himself up the stairs. With every step his chest was burning, his head beginning to spin dizzily. By the time he reached the attic room, his vision was half blacked out by darkness. He had barely enough time to flick his wand at the door, shutting it and casting a breathless _silencio_ , before his lungs froze and his heart began to pound. He let out a harsh groan, dropping to his knees, feeling desperately in his pocket for the Nightshade. His fingers had only just closed around it when the attack hit him like a truck, and pain blocked out the world.

 ** _Then_**

 ** _Sixth Year_**

His feet carried him to the astronomy tower, above which the Dark Mark coiled and twisted in the black night, while behind him a flurry of noise and movement heralded the Death Eaters' arrival. He could almost feel the flickering ripples of violence rolling over the building as the peace was disturbed, as people one by one began to realise that something was wrong. He quickened his pace.

There wasn't much time.

He took the stairs two at a time up to the astronomy tower and paused outside the door. For a moment he breathed, tried to calm his screaming nerves. And then, drawing his wand, he burst open the door with a shatter of splintering wood and strode inside. He moved rapidly up the final twisting steps and emerged into the highest room of the tower, his wand raised, the incantation spilling from his lips.

" _Expelliarmus!_ "

Albus Dumbledore's wand flew from his hand instantly and disappeared into the chilled night air. Under the green glow of the Mark Draco could make out his Headmaster's aged, slender form leaning heavily upon the ramparts and, instantly, his stomach curled into a stone. He had not expected to be successful in Disarming the older wizard, let alone encounter a Dumbledore who looked positively sick in appearance. Still, he held his ground. There was simply no possible way that a sixth year unqualified teenager could beat the greatest wizard of all time head on. And he was counting on that fact desperately. His eyes moved to the two broomsticks that stood nearby, and a flash of hope dawned. They were not, it seemed, alone.

"Good evening, Draco," the old man said calmly.

"Who else is here?"

"A question I might ask you. Or are you acting alone?"

He could not have asked for a better opportunity to warn Dumbledore outright than the one presented. Speaking clearly and loudly he replied – "No, I've got back-up. There are Death Eaters here in your school tonight."

"Well, well," Dumbledore said, in a voice that could almost be described as amused. "Very good indeed. You found a way to let them in, did you? Yet… forgive me… where are they now? You seem unsupported."

The old man was not reacting as he had hoped – rather than angry, confused panic, he was being met with something which would not be out of place among polite dinner conversation. He pressed on, trying to reiterate the facts of the matter.

"They met some of your guard, I think," he said. "They're having a fight down below. They _won't be long._ I came on ahead." And then, as Dumbledore simply nodded, "I… I've got a job to do."

Once again, he waited for the Headmaster to Disapparate. Or to call for his Phoenix. Or summon his wand – as Draco knew for a fact he was capable of – and simply potter downstairs to detain the Death Eaters himself. And yet, still, the old man refused to move. Instead he smiled pleasantly and shifted his weight on the railing, smoothing his robes with one hand.

"Well, then, you must get on and do it, my dear boy."

Draco could do nothing but stare. It was as if Dumbledore thought this was all nothing but a game of make-believe, as if he were indulging a charming young boy engaging him in play. But by now the bangs and shouts in the corridor below were audible to their ears, and he did not know how Dumbledore could possibly be pretending not to hear. What sort of game was the old man playing? As he swallowed hard his victim spoke again, now in a softer voice.

"Draco, Draco, you are not a killer."

And there it was. Dumbledore was not afraid because he knew, just as much as everyone else, that Draco was unable to fulfil this mission. A heavy sense of defeat washed over him and he felt his wand arm tremble as it pointed at his target's chest, felt his body almost slump in despair. If Dumbledore did not fear him, if there was no sense of terror of the event to come, his plan had failed miserably. Dumbledore would not run. The only thing he could do was try to appear foreboding and confident, but his voice was shaking wildly even as he tried.

"How do you know?" he snapped lamely. "You don't know what I'm capable of. You don't know what I've done!"

"Oh, yes, I do," Dumbledore replied passively. "You almost killed Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley. You have been trying, with increasing desperation, to kill me all year. Forgive me, Draco, but they have been feeble attempts…" The wizard's eyes flashed suddenly, as if scanning Draco with an X-Ray laser about to lay all of his deepest secrets bare. "So feeble, to be honest, that I wonder whether your heart has really been in it.

Sheer panic shivered through him. He gripped his wand tightly, beginning to feel almost breathless with fear. At any moment the Death Eaters would be running up the stairs, and if he was unmasked – if Dumbledore knew, somehow, the truth about where his loyalties lay, where his heart lay – it would all be over. Hermione, now somewhere in the castle, for all he knew asleep and defenceless, would be killed at once. He replied in a shrill, tight voice, close to hysteria.

"It has been in it! I've been working on it all year, and tonight–"

A yell from below them cut him off, and he froze. He couldn't decipher whether it had come from a member of Dumbledore's guard, or from a Death Eater. Or a student. His mouth was dry. He swallowed forcefully again.

"Somebody is putting up a good fight," Dumbledore remarked casually. But you were saying… Yes, you have managed to introduce Death Eaters into my school, which, I admit, I thought impossible. How did you do it?"

He waited. Draco's lips worked furiously, but he could not come up with any words. Why, _why_ was the Headmaster even asking him? Why did it matter now? He cast around desperately for something to say, something that would instil in Dumbledore the urgency of the situation.

"Perhaps you ought to get on with the job alone," Dumbledore said, filling the tense silence. "What if your backup has been thwarted by my guard? As you have perhaps realised, there are members of the Order of the Pheonix here tonight, too."

And there it was – another sliver of a chance. Perhaps that was why Dumbledore had not run; because he expected the Death Eaters to be overwhelmed. Perhaps he had some secret weapon hidden in the school? Perhaps the whole lot of them would be carted off to Azkaban within the hour. At that moment, the thought of being sent to Azkaban was heaven.

"And after all," Dumbledore continued, "You don't really need help… I have no wand at the moment… I cannot defend myself." He paused, and then nodded serenely. "I see. You are afraid to act until they join you."

"I'm not afraid!" Draco hissed back, finally remembering the need to keep up his pretence. If the others should enter now he could not be seen to be hesitating. "It's you who should be scared."

Once again, his warning was ignored. Dumbledore simply cocked his head to one side, looking at him with a strange, agreeable expression that made his skin crawl with frustration.

"But why? I don't think you want to kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe… so tell me, while we wait for your friends… how did you smuggle them in here? It seems to have taken you a long time to work out how to do it."

It was hopeless. No matter what he said, no matter how the sounds of conflict downstairs grew, Dumbledore was not going to try to escape. Draco's only plan had crashed and burned before his eyes. He let his wand arm fall to his side, letting out a short sob of defeat. Apparently there was nothing to do but make polite conversation, despite the fact that his head was reeling and his hands were shaking and he felt like vomiting.

"I had to mend that broken Vanishing Cabinet that no one's used for years. The one Montague got lost in last year."

"Aaah," Dumbledore sighed, letting his head fall back. "That was clever. There is a pair, I take it?"

"The other's in Borgin and Burkes." As he explained his actions over the last year he felt almost as if he were entering into some dream state. It was the strangest situation he had ever found himself in – chatting away to a man who was about to be murdered, possibly by himself, about how he had worked for the Dark Lord. Dumbledore nodded along to his story with apparent interest, seemingly unaware of how ridiculous the whole conversation was.

"But there were times, weren't there, when you were not sure you would succeed in mending the Cabinet? And you resorted to crude and badly judged measures such as sending me a cursed necklace that was bound to reach the wrong hands… poisoning mead there was only the slightest chance I might drink…"

Draco let out a short, rough laugh. He felt as if Dumbledore was stripping down every pathetic lie he had formed. Talking about it now, he knew he could not have made his intentions more obvious if he had tried. He could not have sent a clearer warning. Cursing Katie Bell had been the closest shave – he still hadn't been able to look at her since she had returned to school. He had cast the spell through Rosmerta, who had no knowledge of dark magic, and whose mistakes ensured that the curse was not immediately fateful. As for the mead, he had been certain that Slughorn – a bloody potions teacher – would recognise the distinct difference in smell that his poison had caused. Weasley's near miss had been an unexpected scare, but again, all had been well. And yet, for some unknown reason, _no one_ had traced anything back to him.

"Yeah well, you still didn't realise who was behind that stuff, did you?"

"As a matter of fact, I did. I was sure it was you."

He could only stare in shock. Dumbledore's grip on the railing faltered slightly and he had to pause to pull himself upright once more, his complexion fading, his frame suddenly looking extremely frail. Draco barely noticed. All he could do was slowly process the information that Dumbledore had known the whole time. He had known. And, despite being completely aware of the fumbled attempts on his life, of Draco's impossible mission, Dumbledore had simply sat and done nothing.

In that moment, Draco couldn't help but be filled with sheer, overwhelming fury. None of it needed to have happened. Dumbledore could have arrested him on the first day of term, all of it could have been prevented. But he hadn't. Perhaps because Draco wasn't the Golden Boy, wasn't the favourite, and so subsequently it didn't matter what did or didn't happen to him. Perhaps because Dumbledore simply didn't care.

"Why didn't you stop me, then?" he breathed, tears pricking at his eyes.

"I tried, Draco," Dumbledore replied softly. "Professor Snape has been keeping watch over you on my orders–"

"He hasn't been doing your orders, he promised my mother–"

"Of course, that is what he would tell you, Draco, but–"

"He's a double agent, you stupid old man!" Draco screamed. His chest was heaving, his blood boiling in his veins. How, _how_ could Dumbledore be so thick? How had all of this come about simply because Dumbledore wasn't intelligent enough to see through Snape's pathetic pretence? "He isn't working for you, you just think he is!"

"We must agree to differ on that, Draco. It so happens that I trust Professor Snape–"

"Well, you're losing your grip, then," Draco spat coldly. His temper was rearing violently and he was struggling to contain it. If he wasn't careful he was going to give himself away. He tried to pull the mask back on, tried to school his features into malice. "He's been offering me plenty of help, but I haven't told him what I've been doing in the Room of Requirement. He's going to wake up tomorrow and it'll all be over and he won't be the Dark Lord's favourite anymore, he'll be nothing compared to me, nothing!"

"Very gratifying," Dumbledore said, and Draco could almost hear the mockery in the old man's voice. He wasn't fooling anyone, not even himself. "We all like a little appreciation for our own hard work, of course… Tell me, how have you been communicating with Rosmerta? You imperised her, to help you, didn't you? I thought we had all methods of communication in and out of the school monitored."

Not even the slightest detail of his plan had been a secret, not once. Draco felt himself smile hysterically, his lips trembling.

"Enchanted coins," he mumbled. "I had one, and she had the other, and I could send her messages–"

He broke off. Because all at once, she was there in his head again. The stone was even still in his pocket, although it had not glowed warm in months. The deep heartache suddenly flared up again in his chest and he had to wrestle to maintain his composure. It had all been for nothing. _Nothing._

It was almost as if Dumbledore was reading his mind.

"Isn't that the secret method of communication the group that called themselves Dumbledore's Army used last year?"

"Yeah," Draco said, his voice barely above a whisper. He cleared his throat, again attempting to cover himself. "I got the idea from them." And then, to try to throw him off the trail, "I got the idea of poisoning the mead from the Mudblood Granger, as well, I heard her talking in the library about Filch not recognising potions…"

Dumbledore frowned slightly, showing the first sign of negativity all evening. "Please do not use that offensive word in front of me"

Draco sniggered, lifting his wand again. "You care about me saying 'Mudblood,' but you don't care that I'm about to kill you?

"Yes, I do," the old man said simply. "But as for being about to kill me, Draco, you have had several long minutes now. We are quite alone. I am more defenceless than you can have dreamed of finding me, and still you have not acted… There is a little time, one way or another, So let us discuss your options, Draco."

"My options!" Even the concept was laughable. Draco could not remember the last time he had had 'options'. The thought of it drove in on him once more, reminding him how and why he was even there. "I'm standing here with a wand – I'm about to kill you–"

"My dear boy, let us have no more pretence about that," Dumbledore said a little more sharply. "If you were going to kill me, you would have done it when you first Disarmed me, you would not have stopped for this pleasant chat about ways and means." He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was quieter. Sympathetic. Pleading. "Draco, years ago, I knew a boy who made all the wrong choices. Please let me help you."

The words fell on him like hailstones. How could the old fool not understand? His voice rose once more to a shrill cry as he responded. "I haven't got any options! I've got to do it! He'll kill me! He'll kill my whole family!"

"I appreciate the difficulty of your position," Dumbledore said with infuriating patience. "Why else do you think I have not confronted you before now? Because I knew you would have been murdered if Lord Voldemort realised that I suspected you… I can help you, Draco."

"No, you can't," Draco whispered. The tears had broken loose now, and he could feel their hot moisture making its way down his cheeks. "Nobody can. He told me to do it or he'll kill me. He'll kill my mother…" His voice cracked and it took a moment for him to regain control over it. "I've got no choice."

Dumbledore had been sliding further down the railing during their conversation, but his voice remained gentle as he pulled himself upright again, conveying nothing of his deteriorating physical condition. His words were so calm, so collected, that Draco almost found himself believing them.

"Come over to the right side, Draco, and we can hide you more completely than you can possibly imagine. What is more, I can send members of the Order to your mother tonight to hide her likewise. Your father is safe at the moment in Azkaban…. When the time comes, we can protect him too…"

He made it sound so simple, so easy. But Draco could see through it all at once. It was all bullshit. Say that he did put his wand down and 'come over to the right side,' as Dumbledore said – it wasn't like simply crossing the street. As soon as he moved a message would be flashed back to Voldemort, who at this very moment was probably sitting in their dining room in front of the huge black marble mantelpiece, stroking his sleek, horrible snake. A high-pitched, hissing voice would speak and his mother would be brought into the room within the minute, the snake would rear, a wand would be raised, and… He shut off his imagination. The truth was that he, his mother and after some time his father would all be killed. Without hesitation. There was no time for hiding, and there was nowhere they could run.

"Come over to the right side, Draco," Dumbledore repeated in that soft, placating voice. "You are not a killer."

And yet surely, by association, he was? Surely as soon as the Dark Mark had been burned into his skin his soul had been sold over to Voldemort? For now he was standing with those who killed, he was advocating it with his silence, and there was no way out. And if Dumbledore thought that was so easily fixed, he was more stupidly idealistic than Draco could ever have imagined.

"But I got this far, didn't I?" He heard his own deadpan voice speaking as if from the end of a tunnel. "They thought I'd die in the attempt, but I'm here… I'm the one with the wand… you're at my mercy."

"No, Draco."

Dumbledore's short, resolute response brought him back to the moment, and he looked up at the old man's clear blue eyes. Dumbledore looked down his crooked nose at his student, his face suddenly very serious.

"It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now."

And then, suddenly, even as Draco let himself feel that glimmer of hope that there might be a way, the door at the foot of the stairs exploded open. He heard a stampede of footsteps and felt rather than saw the Death Eaters form a loose group around him, felt his aunt's cold breath on the back of his neck.

"Well done, Draco, well done!" she hissed, and he shuddered.

"Dumbledore cornered!" Amycus' brash voice crowed. "Dumbledore wandless, Dumbledore alone!"

Dumbledore straightened up with some effort and looked around at the new arrivals, his tone once more bizarrely polite. "Good evening, Amycus," he greeted amicably. "And you've brought Alecto, too, how charming… And Bellatrix, of course. And is that you Fenrir?"

"That's right. Pleased to see me, Dumbledore?"

Draco's blood turned cold as the huge, hulking figure stepped up beside him. He almost couldn't bear to look, and yet he could smell the coppery warmth of blood, he could hear the soft growls that left the man's chest with every breath.

"No," Dumbledore was saying with a slight frown. "I cannot say that I am…"

"But you know how much I like kids, Dumbledore."

Draco conjured up enough courage to turn his head. He saw Fenrir's grizzly face, saw the shiny dark blood coating his chin, and felt nausea rise in his gut. He looked away quickly, feeling his breath short and sharp in his throat, his body shaking wildly. Dumbledore was speaking.

"I am a little shocked that Draco here invited you, of all people, into the school where his friends live…"

"I didn't," he gasped out, unable to stop himself. "I didn't know he was going to come…"

"I wouldn't miss a trip to Hogwarts, Dumbledore. Not when there are throats to be ripped out," Fenrir replied, ignoring Draco's whispered response. He grinned viciously, one long, yellow, fingernail picking at his teeth. "Delicious, delicious…"

From below them he could hear shouts, a stammer of bangs, and then a muffled voice.

"They've blocked the stairs – _reducto! REDUCTO!_ "

One last wild chance, then. The Order were so close, so near to arriving, and yet there was no time to wait for them. The Death Eaters were shifting impatiently around him and he felt Bellatrix's wand poke him hard in the back. She hissed impatiently into his ear once more.

"Hurry up and do it, Draco, we're on a tight schedule!"

He was acutely aware of the tear tracks on his cheeks and of the tightness in his chest. His wand was still pointed at Dumbledore and those kind blue eyes were watching him sympathetically, like a knife in his side. His jaw clenched.

"He doesn't have the stomach. Just like his father," Amycus smirked from somewhere behind him.

Fenrir let out a growling chuckle and made as if to move forwards. "It doesn't matter. Let me finish him in my own way."

"No!" Bellatrix snapped, sending a quick, short burst of a spell at him to keep him back. "The Dark Lord was clear that the boy was to do it." Her hand gripped Draco's shoulder uncomfortably tightly, her voice lowered to a whisper. "This is your moment, Draco. Do it."

He couldn't. He knew now, more than ever, that he couldn't. The tears were streaming down his cheeks and he could not even draw breath into his frozen lungs. His every effort to escape this mission had failed, and no talk of options and choices was going to save him now. His mother was as good as dead. And Hermione, somewhere in the castle, would soon wake up to an invasion of Death Eaters who would send a rush of curses over her. She would wake up screaming…

"Go on, Draco!" someone, perhaps Alecto, snapped. "Now!"

His head was pounding violently. A mad, desperate thought leapt into his head – he would turn the wand on himself. Perhaps, despite his failure, Voldemort would spare his parents lives if he had killed himself in repentance…

"No."

Every head turned to the doorway, where a tall man with long curtains of black greasy hair was standing, wand drawn. Draco shuddered in thick relief, his wand dropping to his side, finally able to suck in a thin, hyperventilating breath. Snape made his way up the stairs to join them, moving in front of him, one hand firmly pushing him backwards out of the way.

"Severus."

It was Dumbledore. The two men were staring at one another, the air almost shivering between them. Something seemed to be poured into that stare that Draco was unable to understand.

"Please."

Snape lifted his wand. _"Avada Kedavra."_

The green flash of light was blinding, and Draco felt a sudden numbness descend over him. For a moment he thought he had been the one hit with the curse. And then, suddenly, the room was back in sight, just as it had been before, except now there was no Dumbledore leaning on the railing. He had perhaps five seconds to stare blankly at the place the old man had been before a claw-like hand closed over the neck of his blazer and dragged him forcefully away down the stairs. He stumbled, almost fell, managed to find his footing. He was dimly aware of Bellatrix screaming shrilly with joy, of curses being fired left, right and centre as they rushed out into the corridor. The fighting bodies around them were all faceless as Snape towed him through the fray. He had dim impressions of people screaming, of students cowering against the walls, and then of the great oak front doors of the castle which had been blasted open, one lying prone on the floor. Scarlet smears stood out on the stones and wood like bright lights. And then the cold air was in his lungs and he realised that he was, after all, still breathing.

They tumbled down the grassy slopes before the castle, Snape's grip still uncomfortably tight on his blazer. They were passing by the Groundskeeper's hut, and he caught a brief glimpse of Hagrid's huge form facing up to the following Death Eaters, curses bouncing off him like paper balls. And then, as they neared the brink of the school grounds, as the gates came into sight, a voice tore through the air behind them. It was choked with tears and a desperate, grief-stricken rage that caught in Draco's head.

"Stop, you coward! _Stupefy!_ STOP!"

Snape suddenly skidded to a halt, his black robes billowing around him like the wings of a bat. Draco felt a hard shove in the small of his back that propelled him on forwards, heard Snape's voice snarling into his ear.

"Run, Draco!"

And he ran. His body finally kicked into gear and he could smell burning wood in the cold air, he could feel sweat and tears on his face. All he could do was run, his gasping pants dragging the icy wind in and out of his body. He ran.

He only stopped when he reached the gates at the edge of the grounds. He turned and the sight drove in on him like a nightmare. The castle stood there, the front entrance gaping open like a mouth with the buckled doors on either side. The windows to the Great Hall, which he could just make out, had been shattered and he could see the flickering shapes of flames leaping inside. The wind carried the hints of screams and cries to his ears. Before him, in the dark grounds, the Groundskeeper's hut blazed as it was engulfed with tongues of greedy fire. Silhouettes danced around it. And there, not so far away, Snape's robed form stood facing a smaller, scrawnier figure whose glasses caught the glare of the fire. The smaller figure was screaming at the top of his lungs at his former teacher, screaming with an agony of grief, and Draco could only stare.

He wasn't sure how much time passed, but at some point Amycus and Alecto appeared on either side of him and seized him by the arms.

"Time to go home, squirt," Amycus sniggered into his ear.

And then he was being dragged backwards through time and space, and the sight of Hogwarts besieged fell into nothing. Within a matter of seconds his own entrance hall in Malfoy Manor had materialised around him, and he was on his knees on the cold marble floor. It took him a while to realise that he was crying with silent, shuddering sobs, and even longer to feel his mother's arms around him and her sobbing voice in his ear, thanking god for having him brought back safe. His hand found hers and he held on for dear life.

"We'll wait for the others," Alecto's voice said from somewhere above him. "Then we'll go to Him."

 **~O~**

In the chill of the yellow-pink dawn, Draco stood at the large bay windows in his room and watched the birds wheeling around the garden with red eyes. He had always loved the view he had over their sprawling grounds. From his window he could see the huge willow tree hanging over the shallow pond which lay near the bottom of the garden, and he could make out the branches in which he had played as a boy. Played on his own, of course. As a young child he had not got on particularly well with others his own age. Now as an adult, not much seemed to have changed. He watched as a small, pure white creature crept out from the depths of the willow's tangled arms and dipped its finely preened head towards the water. It scooped water up in its beak and tipped its head back to swallow, sending ripples of silver spreading across the water. The peacock that strolled through their grounds had been significantly more subdued since the disappearance of his father. While it usually strutted proudly from side to side and demanded scraps from their plates, now it lurked in the shadows of the bushes and hid itself from view. He had not seen the silvery display of its plumage for months. It looked around warily and scuttled back into hiding somewhere behind the tree. He didn't blame it.

It was a bleak morning, and the air smelled of fear.

He had not slept at all the night before. After arriving in a bedraggled mess with Amycus and Alecto Carrow on the floor of the entrance hall, he had been hurriedly swept away by his mother and shut into his room. There she had checked him over with shaking hands and, finding him unhurt, had spent the rest of the evening in a tense silence. Her incessant pacing had only been paused when Snape arrived, his face dark and empty, to tell them in a deadpan voice that the Dark Lord had heard the events of the evening and wished to speak to them the following morning. He offered no indication of whether the reception would be good or bad. Only that they were to be seen.

His mother had stayed for a while longer before disappearing out into the corridor without a word. Draco, meanwhile, had remained sitting on the edge of his bed, staring blindly at his own hands in his lap. The manor was always relatively warm, but that night he had been chilled to the bone. At various points he retrieved the smooth grey stone from his pocket and rubbed his thumb over it, contemplating whether to contact her. He did so five or six times before finally going through with it. But no matter how many times he tried, the stone did not grow hot in response. It lay in his hand, lifeless, cool, offering no solace. The only hope he had was that he thought he had read somewhere that the Protean Charm became ineffective when the bearer of its twin died, and as far as he could see the Charm was still working. She just wasn't replying. He stowed it away in his desk drawer and stood without it in the darkness.

His head was filled with white noise.

As the night crawled on past, he began to think increasingly more about the rapidly approaching morning and consider his options. It was then that he had taken up his place before the window, his gaze fixed on the old willow tree and the calm surface of the lake, just visible in the moonlight. The sight had always helped him to clear his mind before attempting Occlumency. He had to be ready. He expected to be tested, for his thoughts to be examined. He had a lot to hide. For the remainder of the night he kept his gaze fixed on that tree, steadily rifling through his memories and surreptitiously hiding them, layering one on top of another. He had never been so grateful for his aunt's training, although he doubted it would stand up much in comparison to Voldemort's skills. Still, he had to try.

Now, his mind fuzzy and his mouth dry, and his eyes old and papery with dried tears, Draco pulled himself away from the window and turned his attention to his watch. The hands were creeping towards 08:00am, and his time was steadily trickling away. With a mammoth effort, he made his numb legs move and crossed the room, entering the adjoining bathroom. He pulled off his clothes with fumbling hands and stepped into the ornate, marble-walled shower. Water cascaded down over him with a dull roar. He stood there for a long few minutes, feeling the heat against his skin, imagining melting away into the spray and disappearing down the plughole. After some time he raised his hands and began to slowly push them through his hair, going through the mindless rituals of shampoo and conditioner, rinse, lather, repeat, rinse, lather, repeat… A crazy notion gripped him that he could simply remain in the shower all day long. He seriously contemplated it for around ten minutes before admitting defeat and stepping out onto the thick bath matt waiting outside. The towels, always warm and dry, wrapped around him and sucked up the droplets of moisture on his skin.

He made a point of avoiding his ghostly, greyish reflection in the mirror.

Back in his bedroom, the light was beginning to grow warmer as the sun climbed into the sky. He let the towel fall to the floor and opened his wardrobe. His clothes hung waiting, arranged in neat rows. What does one choose as appropriate attire for one's own death? His gaze skated from right to left and back again before settling on the option which required the least amount of thought – a standard black suit and black shirt. The fabric felt coarse and rough against his skin, and when he turned to look in the mirror to button his shirt he couldn't help but feel like he were looking at a cardboard cut-out of himself. His skin was impossibly white in contrast with the dark material. Still, there was nothing to be done about it. He didn't suppose it would matter much in a couple of hours.

As he was shrugging on his blazer and combing his damp hair back with his fingers there was a soft knock at the door. He turned to find his mother stepping silently into the room, closing the door with an audible click behind her. She did not look as if she had slept any better than he himself. He buttoned his blazer closed as she moved towards him, her hands folded in front of her, her face lined. Her eyes were red from crying.

"Draco," she said, and then stopped abruptly.

She took a deep, shuddering breath as she looked him up and down. Then her eyes welled up with fresh tears and she hid her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently.

He felt a lump rising in his own throat and crossed to her in two quick strides, pulling her into his arms. Over the course of the last year he had outgrown her, and she had suddenly become extremely small and vulnerable in his eyes. He had always thought that it was from her that he had inherited his slender frame and delicate hands. His father, although thin, had always had a squarer appearance. She clutched onto him with those hands now, clenching them tightly in his clothes as if she hoped to somehow shield him. He held her, his chin resting on the top of her head, trying to speak through the sob threatening to break free from his throat.

"I'm sorry, mother," he said at last, unable to keep his voice from wobbling. "I tried to… to do the right thing…"

He had to stop himself. She was shaking her head fiercely and suddenly pulled free and held him at arms length, her gaze burning through her tears.

"Don't," she said forcefully. "Don't. We will appeal to him. He will have mercy on you. You did your best, your actions led to Dumbledore's death. You will be forgiven for whatever else happened, Draco."

"Mother…"

He didn't need to say anything more. She stared at him, her jaw working, her shoulders still shaking sporadically as she struggled to hold back sobs. Draco gently pushed her hands down and turned away, crossing to his desk.

"Listen," he said, trying to pull some authority back into his voice. "I don't believe he'll harm you, not with how things played out. So I need you to know that this is here."

He opened his top drawer and gestured inside. She came forwards and looked down at the small silver statue that lay inside – a hawk, or something of the like, clutching a small emerald stone in its talons.

"It's a portkey," he explained as she looked at him in confusion. "I've enchanted it to take you far away. Do you remember the place we visited once in Scotland, when I was very young?"

She nodded.

"It'll take you there. If father is released from prison, if you can get to him, I want you to take it and go."

"Draco," she said softly, reaching out to push the drawer shut, "There will be no 'going' without you."

Something in his chest broke. He swallowed hard to drown the sob building there and brushed at his eyes, pretending to be fixing something with his collar. She reached out and pulled it straight for him, her lips trembling. Her hands smoothed his blazer and then moved up to gently rub his cheeks clean.

"Be brave," she whispered.

He made himself nod. As her face crumpled once more he put his arms around her again in a final embrace, steeling himself to remain steadfast.

"It'll be alright, mother."

There was a knock on the door. He let go as it creaked open and Wormtail's ugly, squashed features appeared. The squat man seemed to be struggling to hold back a delighted grin as he spoke.

"The Dark Lord is waiting for you downstairs," he said, his beady eyes flicking from one to the other. "He is most eager to begin the proceedings."

He withdrew. Draco pushed his hand through his hair one last time, trying desperately to control his trembling hands. He felt his mother's eyes on him and tried to smile at her, but it came out like a grimace.

"Let's go," he said shortly.

They emerged into the corridor and headed for the stairs. He held out his arm for her to take as her breathing began to grow tight, and she held onto him with white-knuckled hands. They reached the great, sweeping staircase that led down into the entrance hall and made their way slowly down. He lifted his chin at the sight of Amycus and Alecto, who were standing at the entrance to the dining room. They grinned widely at the sight of him.

"Morning," Amycus said.

Draco shot him an icy glare in response, and his mother did not even look. They reached the two large double doors and stopped. He found himself gazing at the large silver handles, coiled in the shape of two dragons. He had always liked the feature. In his youth he used to pretend that they were alive and his personal companions. When he was older he once tried to bring them to life with a charm from school, but it only half worked and they marched around like robots spitting plumes of smoke before his father admonished him and demanded that they be set back on the door. He had a brief vision of bringing them into the dining room, each ten times its current size, to stand beside him like a bodyguard.

"Shall we?" Alecto said brightly.

Amycus reached across them and rapped sharply on the door with his knuckles before pushing it slowly open. He stepped inside and held it for them. Draco felt his mother's hands tighten on his arm. He straightened his shoulders, trying to ignore the pounding blood in his temples and the way his lungs refused to take in any air, and led the way forwards into the room.

It was dark. It always was these days. The huge, thick curtains had been drawn over the windows, shutting out any hint of daylight. Instead the only light came from the fireplace, in which a crackling, blazing fire threw flickering shadows up against the walls. Once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom he found that the room was remarkably crowded. The long table, at which meetings were usually held, was deserted. But the walls, bearing the books he had grown up reading, were lined with watching people. He could see each of their faces – they were not in their Death Eater masks and cloaks. Still, in the half light all of the faces looked the same. Hollow glittering eyes, unfriendly sneering mouths. Apparently Voldemort had gathered most, if not all, of the Death Eaters to the Manor for that morning's meeting. He cast his gaze around the room briefly before his attention was drawn, once again, to the fireplace.

It was there that a tall, almost skeletal figure stood, his huge robes moving gently around him as if disturbed by a slight breeze. The firelight caught on his smooth white head and flat, snake-like features. And those red, slitted eyes were riveted on Draco's, a twisted expression playing about the lipless mouth which Draco had come to recognise as a smile.

"Good morning, Malfoy's. Welcome," the soft voice spoke. The air seemed to shiver with it. "Thank you for coming."

As soon as he stepped into the rough circle the Death Eaters had formed, he felt a gentle nudge against his mind. The walls that he had spent the night putting in place automatically strengthened and he forced himself to relax. He couldn't be seen to be hiding. His hands shaking wildly at his sides, he lay his mind open and felt Voldemort's icy, light touch skate around it.

 _No emotion,_ he reminded himself silently. _No emotion. You don't feel anything._

In a way, it was true without trying too hard. Fear was eclipsing any other feelings of love or distraction. Every image he had of Hermione's face, every memory of her warm fingers against his skin was buried deep in the back of his mind, hidden under layer upon layer of general memories of his classes at Hogwarts. If her features arose momentarily, it would not be suspicious. If they arose too often, it most definitely would be.

Across the room, Voldemort's took a step away from the fireplace. His robed form blocked out some of the light from the room, plunging half of his face into darkness. He spread his hands, grinning in a chillingly contented way.

"Draco. Please step forwards."

His mother clutched for his hand. He squeezed it briefly before detaching her from his grip. To his relief Bellatrix appeared out of nowhere and took her sister by the arm, holding her back as he moved forwards. He didn't dare look at his mother's terrified eyes. He wouldn't be able to stand it.

Without her by his side, he felt oddly naked beneath the gaze of the Death Eaters. His shoes tapped loudly on the marble floor as he moved towards the centre of the circle, the back of his neck prickling, his hands balled into fists at his sides to hide the shaking. He stopped perhaps three meters from Voldemort and inclined his head respectfully, offering a small bow.

"My Lord," he managed.

His voice sounded so small and pathetic in the silence that Voldemort's lips curved into a smirk once again.

"How are you, Draco?" he said with mock sincerity. "How does this morning find you? In good health, I hope."

Draco's head jerked in a short nod. He kept his eyes on the floor near Voldemort's bare feet. "Yes, my Lord."

"Good." Voldemort looked around at his circle of Death Eaters, still with that terrible grin. "Perhaps, Draco, you would like to enlighten us as to the outcome of your mission last night."

Draco felt a sickening wave rush over him. He drew a breath that was meant to steady himself, but in reality only juddered in and out noisily. He suppressed a flinch as something moved in the darkness near the fireplace and he became suddenly aware of a slithering mass that caught the firelight. Nagini was there. Chills prickled over his skin. He swallowed hard.

"Dumbledore is dead, as you ordered, my Lord," he said at last, unable to keep his voice from quavering. "The mission was successful."

"I see. That is very good news," Voldemort said. Draco raised his gaze to meet the glinting red eyes, which were laughing silently at him. "You did the deed, as I commanded?"

Draco's words stuck in his throat. He wet his lips, felt their dryness. A glance at the silent faces surrounding them told him that he would find no support there. Voldemort's presence tightened slightly around his mind and he shuddered involuntarily, reaching for his defensive walls. He could feel a cold sweat beginning to bead on his forehead and the back of his neck.

"I'm waiting, Draco."

He forced himself to breathe. "No," he said at last. "No, my Lord. Snape killed him. But my actions led to–"

"Severus?" Voldemort repeated silkily, and he broke off abruptly. "I believe I ordered you to dispatch the old fool. Am I mistaken?"

Draco's voice had dried up in his throat. He tried frantically to speak, and then eventually shook his head in a jerky, short movement when he failed. Voldemort made a soft noise in the back of his throat and looked around the room, as if having some private conversation with the Death Eaters surrounding them.

"I am told that you were too weak to commit the act. That you were there, with the old man defenceless before you, and yet hesitated. I hardly know what to think of it."

Draco tried to look away, but the red eyes found him again and bore into him like twin lasers. He was beginning to shake and tensed his arms and legs, trying to hold still. His mother's words rang in his head. _Be brave._

"Do you deny it, Draco?"

He shook his head.

"Do you disagree with my orders? Are you unwilling to pledge your loyalty to me?"

Another shake. The voice was getting steadily less mocking and more serious, an icy edge creeping into it. He felt a sudden stab in the front of his head and gasped before he could stop himself, flinching violently. He had to force himself to relax again, to allow Voldemort's mind to slice cleanly into his own. It was not usually a comfortable experience, but this time Voldemort was making no effort to be gentle. He left a trail of aching pain behind him as he slipped through, vehemently shoving his memories aside. Images flashed through his head in quick succession – the broken doors in the entrance hall at Hogwarts, the fire leaping inside the Great Hall, the stairs up to the Astronomy Tower, Potter slashing his wand and blood seeping through his clothes in a cold, dark bathroom, the Gameskeeper's hut going up in flames, the flash of green light, Dumbledore leading heavily on the railing, Fenrir's bloody smirk…

 _"Come over to the right side, Draco…"_

Voldemort's high-pitched laugh brought him suddenly back to the present. "He wanted you to join him, did he? And what did you say, might I ask…"

Draco's heart was thundering in his chest. He managed to gently push the most favourable memory to the surface, and Voldemort fell upon it like a hungry wolf. His own voice rang in his ears and all at once he was back, his wand pointed at the frail old man's chest, those twinkling eyes gazing calmly at him from across the room.

 _"You don't know what I'm capable of. You don't know what I've done! … You stupid old man… They thought I'd die in the attempt, but I'm here… I'm the one with the wand… you're at my mercy…"_

"Admirable," Voldemort's voice remarked. "You must be very sorry to lose such glory."

He withdrew abruptly and Draco was left breathing hard, sweat trickling down his back, his knees shaking beneath him. He managed to stay on his feet, shards of pain pounding through his head. He pressed the heel of his hand against his temple as Voldemort looked around at the room.

"So you wanted the kill, and yet you failed to achieve it. No matter what your intentions, you were still weak." His red eyes fixed on Draco's shaking body once again. "You _are_ weak."

Draco tried to draw breath to speak, but before he could do so the fire in the grate flashed a bright jade green. Voldemort's head tilted to one side.

"Ah," he said, his voice soft once more. "Finally."

As he spoke a pair of spinning figures appeared in the flames and, after growing larger, stepped out of the grate and onto the thick patterned rug that lay there. One was Yaxley, tall and stern, with one hand holding another person by the scruff of the neck. A person who was instantly recognisable, and yet completely alien. The last time Draco had seen his father, he had been on the front page of the Daily Prophet, his hair sleek and tidy, his face twisted into a glare as he stared down the camera. He had still been wearing his three-piece suit and expensive, hooded robes. Now he found himself staring at a man whose hands were still cuffed together in front of him, who wore the grubby striped clothes of a prisoner, whose eyes were set in dark circles from months of sleepless nights, whose face was gaunt and whose hair was tangled and grey. He looked like a gross parody of the man Draco remembered saying goodbye to.

After months of separation, his eyes met the silver-grey gaze of his father.

He still couldn't make himself speak. He watched Lucius' eyes flick from his son to Voldemort and back before squinting into the mass of watching eyes, finally picking out his wife among them.

"Good morning, Lucius," Voldemort said calmly. "I do hope your stay in Azkaban was not too taxing."

"My… My lord…"

Lucius' voice was halting and hoarse. Draco wondered when he had last used it. His father straightened up, doing his best to fix his posture and assume the proud stance he usually took. It was slightly punctured by the prison uniform. Voldemort smiled disdainfully at him, the red eyes looking him up and down.

"You will be pleased to hear, Lucius, that your son has facilitated – not personally committed, but facilitated – the death of Albus Dumbledore. Now, I am a merciful Lord. Despite your past failures, I feel your son's actions have redeemed you. A little."

Lucius' features displayed nothing but overt shock. He met Draco's gaze, as if looking for confirmation. Draco stared back at him, horribly aware of how much he was shaking. This was beginning to feel more and more like a public execution and less like a standard meeting. Judge, jury and executioner. Lucius inclined his head to Voldemort respectfully, averting his gaze, just as Draco had done a few minutes earlier.

"Th-Thank you, My Lord," he said quietly.

Voldemort smiled, displaying small, pointed teeth. He held out a hand, palm up, indicating the door.

"Now, go and clean yourself up. You look disgusting, Lucius."

At once, Lucius turned and began to walk unsteadily across the room towards the door. Draco twisted to watch him go, feeling strangely deflated. For one fleeting second, part of him had actually believed that his father might be able to do something. He had always been able to count on his father. If ever there was a problem in life, the usual solution was to throw money at it until it went away. But then, of course, buying the whole room brand new _Nimbus 2001's_ was hardly going to fix anything now. His mother was staring at his father with incredulous wide eyes, as if daring him to really leave them. Her whisper reached his ears.

"Lucius…"

His father ducked his head slightly, as if trying to physically avoid the call. He reached the double doors of the dining room, cracked them open, and slipped quietly out. The doors closed behind him. Draco heard his footsteps on the stairs as he moved slowly up to the first floor. Voldemort retrieved his wand from the folds of his robes and lifted it, spinning it lazily between two fingers.

"Congratulations, Draco," he said coolly. "You have earned your father's freedom. Have you anything to say?"

"Thank you."

The words felt stiff and muted, forced between cold lips. He felt dangerously close to the storm that was about to hit, he could sense it coming. This was the final breather before the world crashed. He focused on the air moving unevenly in and out of his lungs, tried to pin his eyes on the books lining the shelves. He could look at each one and envision the story inside, could remember what age he had been when he had first plucked each volume off the shelf. His stomach clenched as Voldemort's red eyes flashed briefly.

"However," he said, "Although I am happy to reward good work, the fact remains that you disobeyed my orders. I asked you to kill the old man. You did not."

Draco wanted to argue, to plead his case, but his voice had curled up somewhere in his throat. He couldn't have spoken if his life depended on it. The world felt like it was spinning, tilting beneath his unsteady legs. His head still hurt from the forced legilimency. He felt strangely disconnected from his body. Somehow he found the strength to lift his gaze and meet the red-eyed stare, feeling as if his very soul was trembling.

"You failed me, Draco. And you must be punished."

The wand lifted, pointed delicately down at him. Draco found himself unable to look away from its softly glowing tip.

 _"Crucio."_

The word was spoken so daintily, so calmly. And yet the hurricane of agony that zeroed in on him could not have felt more violent. He felt his whole body contract in response, felt every nerve light up as if set on fire. Pinpricks of knife-sharp razor pain prickled across every inch of his flesh, tore his lungs open. His jaw was clenching so hard that it hurt. The cold marble floor pressed hard against his knees. His gut twisted as another blast of pain hit him, he heard his own voice make a strange, strangled sound somewhere between a cry and a moan.

 _"Draco! Please, please my Lord, have mercy! Draco!"_

It was his mother's voice. She was screaming and crying. He could hear the sound as if from the end of a long, long tunnel. And then, suddenly, the curse had lifted and he found himself on his knees, hunched over, gasping for breath, his body still twitching and shuddering. The marble floor of his dining room filled his vision; a thick, unforgiving blackness speckled with white flecks. His mother's crying was more audible now. He lifted his head slowly and just about made out her struggling form. Someone – Bellatrix, he thought – was holding her back, although she was doing her best to break free.

"… his best, my Lord," she was shrieking shrilly. "He did everything he could! He was too young!"

"Too young?"

He heard the soft shuffle of bare feet against the marble floor. At the periphery of his vision Voldemort was pacing leisurely back and forth before him. He felt the invisible hand closing over his mind again and, like a knee-jerk reaction, reached for his mental walls. His head was roaring from the sudden attack and he could barely get himself together before the knife was driving into his head once more, turning his thoughts aside, pushing through memories of his first year at Hogwarts, his most recent exams, his efforts in the Room of Requirement. He offered up the memory of stamping on Potter's frozen face on the Hogwarts Express from the beginning of the year, felt Voldemort pause over it.

"Are you questioning my judgement, Narcissa?"

"No," she whispered. "He's my only son, my Lord… I beg you…"

Draco could feel the red eyes bearing down on him like fiery arrows. He could taste blood on his lip where his teeth had clamped down. He lifted a hand to wipe his mouth. His body felt shivery and weak around him. Every instinct screamed at him to remain down, to look away in submission, but he couldn't. If he was to die, he did not want to die kneeling on the floor of his own house. With a shuddering breath he gathered his knees beneath him and rose unsteadily, pulled his blazer straight. He straightened his shoulders, his eyes darting uncertainly towards the mass of seething scales which still rippled in the dark corner beside the fireplace. Then, with fear still tight in every limb, he lifted his gaze to meet Voldemort's.

He caught something which could have been anger in the Dark Lord's reptilian face. Voldemort tilted his head to one side, his wand tapping thoughtfully against his open palm. The firelight flashed over him in steady bursts, turning his white skin orange.

"You believe," the lipless mouth said slowly, "that I should show your son the same mercy he has shown my enemies?"

His question was met with silence. He looked around the room, as if giving each and every Death Eater the chance to speak. When no one dared he returned his attention to Draco, and again the resentment flashed across his face at the sight of his victim standing looking back at him. Draco steeled himself not to back down. _Be brave,_ she had said. He had to draw on strength he didn't know he had.

 _"I love you."_

 _"Say it again."_

 _A light, shy bubble of laughter. "I love you, Draco Malfoy."_

Voldemort's gaze narrowed icily. He lifted his hand and Draco watched in mute dread as the massive beast in the corner slid across the marble floor to coil around its master's leg, forked tongue tasting the air, flat eyes fixed on him.

"Unfortunately, Narcissa, I fear your son rather lacks the resolve I ask of my followers," Voldemort said silkily. He lowered his hand to caress the snake's mottled green and brown head."Nagini," he crooned softly.

Blind terror closed over Draco's head. His hand went at once to his pocket, where his wand was stowed, and then froze. What was he going to do? Fight back? The very idea was laughable. With a soft, rasping hiss from its master, the snake plunged suddenly forwards, weaving its way across the sleek floor towards him. He took a step backwards from it, and in that time it had come close enough to rear in front of him, so tall that its head was on level with his own. He knew that he was hyperventilating, that his whole body was trembling wildly, he could hear his blood pounding in his ears.

The snake's lower body curled on the floor as it reared higher, now as tall as himself, now taller, its yellow slitted eyes staring down at him. He imagined running, but his legs were as good as jelly. If he took another step he was convinced that they would give out. The snake swayed back and forth, as if readying itself, its tongue flickering just inches from his face, its mouth opening slightly to reveal the pearly white tips of two impossibly long fangs. Its pale throat seemed to pulse grotesquely. With everything he had left, he tore his gaze away from the terrible sight and, glancing over his shoulder, managed to find his mother's face in the crowd. Tears were streaming from her eyes and her mouth was open wide in a silent scream of grief. Bellatrix's arms were wrapped around her middle, holding her back with all her strength. He wanted to say something, to tell her that it would all be all right, but there was no time.

With a sudden flash of movement, the snake struck.

Reflex took over – his arm jerked up in front of his face as he launched himself sideways, and he felt a heavy weight fasten over his sleeve. The next moment he was staggering clear and the material of both shirt and jacket on his arm had been ripped clean through. The snake hit the ground, twisted, and in the same movement was surging upwards once more. Once again its enormity paralysed him – it was at least as thick as himself in its middle and as he stumbled backwards, the heat of the fire snapping at his back, its mouth gaped open wide. He saw the pink flesh inside quivering with anticipation, saw droplets of clear liquid dripping from the round glottis. He could hear a high-pitched laugh from somewhere nearby, just about audible over the roaring in his ears. As the snake pitched in on him he side-stepped it once more, but this time it twisted to follow him. It lifted, impossibly balanced, and struck again.

He was not aware of much at first other than the weight that had careered into his neck. Then he became conscious of a steadily building pain, culminating in two distinctive spots. The force of the attack carried them both to the ground and his head struck the marble floor with a sickening _crack_ that drove his breath out of him. Instantly the snake's huge mass was coiling on top of him, pressing him against the ground. Its tail entwined his legs within seconds, immobilising him with the speed of a trained assassin. Hardly realising what he was doing, he tore his arms free and seized its jaws, which were fastened just below his own. He dragged at it desperately, his fingers slipping on the wet scales. A warm dampness was seeping through his collar. The pain in his neck was becoming white-hot and was accompanied by the steady pressure of locked jaws. He could hear himself choking and gasping, dark spots swarming in on his vision. He tried to kick free, felt the snake's body press down harder, pinning him to the floor.

 _"My Lord, may I speak?"_

The voice sounded as if it had been spoken through by a Patronus – echoing, distant, soft. He could barely even decipher what the words meant. His hands were scrabbling still at the snake's blunt head. He whimpered as its jaws locked shut, cutting off his airways.

 _"Always, Severus. What are your thoughts?"_

The snake was slowly coiling tighter around his chest, squeezing, shifting. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware of the slow burning spreading over his body, spreading from the contact the jaws had on his neck. It was as if his blood was turning to poison in his veins. He could feel his body beginning to twitch involuntarily, choking with earnest despite the fact he could not draw breath. In another world the calm, rational conversation was continuing.

 _"Despite his failure, without young Malfoy's plan we would have been unable to enter Hogwarts and kill Dumbledore. He has displayed considerable magical talent for a boy his age. Meanwhile, young blood among our ranks is rather scarce…"_

The darkness had closed over his entire scope of vision now. Not even the firelight punctured it. He knew his eyes were open, and yet he could see nothing. The entire world was spinning faster and faster, and his head felt as though it were imploding inwards, and his thoughts were disintegrating into a jumble of words and images. Pain. Snake. Her hair. Blood. Scales on skin. A feather-light touch that raised goosebumps on his bare skin. Red eyes. Soft lips. Forked tongue. He felt a watery heat in his eyes.

 _"Your point, Severus?"_

 _"I believe he has potential, my Lord. That is all I have to say."_

All at once, the snake's steady movement stilled. Perhaps a minute ago he might have had the strength to push it off. Now all he could do was lie there. He could feel a hot flow cascading down over his shoulder and sticking in his hair as it pooled on the floor. Scales rubbed against the bare skin of his forearm. The last of the breath left his lungs and he felt his eyes rolling back in his head, felt cold sweat on his skin.

 _"As always, Severus, you speak well."_ A high-pitched voice was speaking, slithering through the darkness. _"Perhaps a deal, then – if he survives, his hesitation may be forgiven. If not, Nagini may eat the body."_

And then, suddenly, the jaws unfastened from his neck and air rushed into him. At once he was choking, coughing, spluttering. Slowly, leisurely, the snake's weight slipped off his chest, leaving nothing but the cool marble floor against his cheek. He was gasping, retching, heaving in thick, wet breaths, his body twitching and jerking.

 _"Draco! Draco…"_

Someone was with him. Someone was pressing the silken fabric of an expensive scarf against his neck. It hurt dully, but he couldn't lift his arm or speak out in protest. It was taking all he had to simply breathe. Sluggishly his vision crawled back. An orange glow greeted him, reflected on the dark floor. He could just make out the glistening scales writhing together in the dark corner by the fireplace, seething quietly, furious at its loss.

 _"I know, I know, Nagini. Do not fear. We will hunt tonight."_ The voice grew abruptly hard and cold. _"Get him out of my sight. We have business to attend to."_

There were footsteps and then a pair of hands came down to fist in his blazer. He was dragged backwards across the glossy floor, able to watch the sticky, spreading trail of blood he left behind. It glimmered in the firelight, almost prettily. And then the tall doors of the dining room were slamming shut and the pressure on his mind he had almost grown used to abruptly vanished. His steadily throbbing head paled to insignificance compared to the agony pulsing through his neck. He was distinctly more aware of it now that the snake was out of sight. He lifted a shaking hand to his neck and felt hot thickness paste his fingers at once. Dark spots zeroed in on his vision. He was gasping wetly – every time he tried to take a deep breath coppery heat bubbled in his throat and he started choking violently. His whole body was trembling and sweating and flinching uncontrollably.

Somewhere nearby he could hear an uncontrollable, inconsolable wailing. Like the sound a mourner might make at a funeral.

The world was spinning and he was dimly aware that he was retching horribly, his mouth steadily filling with a horrible taste. He couldn't see.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading.**

 **Reviews, as always, are welcome.**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

* * *

 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

* * *

 ** _Chapter_**

 ** _Sixth Year_**

Hermione's room was bare – every possession had been packed into her trunk and her bed had been stripped of its sheets. She had retrieved every book from beneath the bed, every scrap of paper from the desk. Her hand had hesitated over the slender grey stone which had been stowed in her closest pocket all year. On that first night after it had all happened she had not slept a wink. She had sat there in her desk chair after the others had drifted off into their rooms and she had watched the stone on her desk, her hand cupped near enough to feel it grow hot every so often. He had tried to contact her no more than six times before stopping. He didn't say much.

 _Are you ok?_

 _Are you there?_

 _There's nothing I can say._

 _Are you ok?_

 _I'm sorry._

 _Be safe._

That last one had come in the early hours of the morning, well into the light of dawn, and it unnerved her slightly. It sounded almost like a goodbye. But she could not even register his messages clearly through the roaring storm in her own mind. All she could think of was Harry's pale, weary face as they all stood around in the hospital wing, while Bill lay bleeding beside them thanks to the work of Greyback, while they all reeled from the shock of the night's events.

"Snape killed him," he had said, his voice flat with the horror of it. "It was a trap… Malfoy trapped him and waited for the Death Eaters."

She didn't think she had been able to speak properly until the next day. Of course they had thought he was up to something. But not this. Never had she believed that it would be this. When the stone glowed with his words, all she could think about was Dumbledore's shattered body on the ground below the astronomy tower. She could not see past that.

The next couple of days had passed in a dead haze. The castle had been almost silent. Surprisingly, they had not found themselves discussing the event or the circumstances leading up to it. Instead she, Harry, Ron and Ginny spent their time simply sitting outside near the lake or in the Common room, sharing in one another's grief. There had never been an appropriate moment to ask Harry what had happened and she very much doubted that one would present itself. And now the funeral was beginning within the hour, and afterwards they would be travelling home.

It felt so terribly bleak.

She had sat at her desk often over the past couple of days and tried to plan out what would happen. Bill and Fleur would marry. Harry's birthday would be around the same time. They would, most likely, all come to stay at the Burrow for the two events and then… and then they would leave. The Horcruxes were out there somewhere. And an impossible task was all they had to fight back against the wave of impending death and destruction Voldemort was bringing down on them. Sitting there at four in the morning one night, she realised that she would have to send her parents to safety alone. And the logistics of that were too terrible for her to contemplate at that moment.

With a sudden rush of cold fury she opened her drawer and put the stone into it. The drawer shut with a clipped thud and she turned away from it, strode to where her trunk and bag waited beside the door. Her resentment was too great for her to take it, or to answer. She wanted to be hopeful, but she couldn't help but feel that she was about to lose everything dear to her due to that night on the astronomy tower. Dumbledore was dead, and they were on their own.

She did not look back as she heaved her trunk down the stairs into the Common room where she stored it with the others, all waiting to be taken down to the Hogwarts Express. Harry, Ron, Ginny and Neville were standing near the portrait hole, waiting for her to join them before making their way down to the grounds. They all looked sombre and dejected. Harry looked as if he was not truly awake, staring dully at the ground in front of him, grey circles beneath his eyes betraying the last few sleepless nights. She reached them and offered them a small smile.

"Ready?" Ron said unsteadily.

They climbed out through the portrait and joined the flood of students going down to the grounds. The sun hit them in a bright surge as they emerged through the great doors of the Entrance Hall and walked slowly down the steps. The funeral was to take place beside the lake – she could see a white marble table and row upon row of chairs waiting there. The sunlight danced on the glossy water. It could not have been a more beautiful day.

"Hermione?"

She blinked, realising that she had come to a halt on the stone steps. Harry had turned to look for her, his hollow eyes meeting hers. She hurried on towards him and, without really knowing what she was doing, linked her arm through his. He seemed grateful for the contact and squeezed her arm slightly as they followed the others down towards the lake.

"It's all so surreal," he said quietly.

"Yes, it is," she murmured. "Harry?"

"Mm?"

She stopped herself, suddenly aware of what she had been about to ask. But he was looking at her expectantly, as if he knew what she had been thinking, and suddenly she could not stop herself. She could not simply not know. She spoke, her voice quavering slightly.

"Malfoy… He planned it all? He was going to kill Dumbledore?"

Harry sighed heavily, his face darkening. Their pace slowed, allowing the others to draw ahead of them.

"He let the Death Eaters into the castle," Harry said slowly. "But when he came upstairs and disarmed Dumbledore, he was alone. And they talked for so long…"

"What did they talk about?"

It seemed like such a meaningless question and she almost blushed, but Harry replied without hesitation.

"Just about… about his choices. Dumbledore wanted him to join the Order or something, get protection. But Malfoy said he couldn't, because he and his parents would be killed if he didn't follow his orders…"

She listened in silence, picturing it all. She could see him there, his wand arm shaking, his lips quirking as he tried to pretend to be in control. He must have been so terrified…

"But he couldn't do it."

"Do it?"

"Kill Dumbledore," Harry explained with a wince. The memory was still raw, and he had not spoken so much about it to anyone yet. "He just stood there. And then the other Death Eaters came, and they told him to do it, and he still didn't. And then Snape came, and…"

He broke off and she rubbed his arm, nodding, releasing him from the obligation to go on. They had reached the back row by now and she looked around at the strange crowd Dumbledore's funeral had drawn. She spotted several famous witches and wizards she recognised from her studies – academics, writers, poets, explorers, alchemists, aurors. All had turned out for the day.

"I keep thinking of him, you know," Harry said, to her surprise. "He was so desperate and… I just wonder what he's doing now."

"Yeah," she murmured.

Ginny and Ron had saved seats for them, and Ron moved aside to let Harry and Ginny sit together. He squeezed back in beside Hermione, reaching out to give her hand a squeeze, tears glistening on the end of his long nose. She squeezed back before withdrawing, folding her hands in her lap instead.

The funeral passed by in a blur. She watched Hagrid carrying the body, wrapped in a velvet cloth, up to the marble table. She listened to Fawkes' keening cries from above them and to the muffled sobs of the crowd listening to a small man's long, unnecessary speech about who Dumbledore had been. She flinched in surprise as the body burst into white flames which flared brightly and then disappeared to reveal a marble white tomb. Ron reached for her hand again, but she pretended not to notice.

Somehow, all she could see was his pale face in the carriage on the first night of term. He had stared at her with eyes that were screaming, with a face so twisted in despair and anguish that she had barely known him.

"This is what you don't understand, you little Golden Trio with your Dumbledore's Army behind you! Whatever you do, your family can run. They can go into hiding, they can disappear. My family can't run, don't you get it? Because he's _fucking sitting at our dinner table!"_

She felt so ignorant now, and his words felt so much more meaningful than they had then. She felt hot tears on her cheeks and brushed at them desperately, forcing herself to take a deep breath. People were rising around them, moving towards the Entrance Hall where they would wait for the carriages to take them to the train. She stood up so suddenly that her chair almost toppled backwards. Ron, Ginny and Harry blinked up at her in confusion.

"I've left something in my room," she said blankly.

She didn't wait to let them ask questions – she just turned and left. She was rushing over their entire year again in her head. His plan had been stupid, and of course it had not worked, but there was the slightest chance it might have if Harry and Dumbledore had not just returned from hunting Horcruxes. If Dumbledore had not been weakened, there would have been ample time to warn him of the impending attack and yet not give anything away… His silence all year was making sense at last. Faced with that task, as punishment for his father, the death of his parents hanging over him, he had panicked. He had not been able to risk her death. And he would have been watched so closely…

 _He couldn't do it,_ Harry had said. _He just stood there._

And what were the repercussions of that? After all, the plan had failed. Clearly Draco had hoped to be captured by the Order, to never have to face the wrath of Voldemort. And yet, instead, he had been dragged back to his new master with Snape and the other Death Eaters. Where he would have to explain his failure. And somehow, she could not imagine that Voldemort would be sympathetic, even if Snape had done what Draco had been unable to do.

She took the stairs two at a time up to the Gryffindor Common room. Their trunks had gone and a couple of House Elves were beginning to clean the area – they gasped as she ran past, but she couldn't let herself stop to reassure them. Not now. She dashed up the stairs and threw the door open to her room. If it had been cleaned already, if it was gone… and yet, when she threw open her drawer, she heard the rattle and she felt dizzy with relief. She snatched up the stone and held it tight, remembering the final message, sent at dawn.

 _Be safe._

She sent three in quick succession, holding the stone tight with both hands.

 _Are you ok?_

 _Can you talk?_

 _Draco?_

The stone remained cold in her hand.

She waited until the House Elves came to tell her in shrill voices that the train would leave soon.

 **~O~**

 _She appeared on the platform on the back of the train where he was smoking silently, trying to think what he would say. He wanted to say something witty and funny and intelligent. She looked nervous. He straightened up and, unable to think of anything else, felt himself lapse back into his cool, cold demeanour – and then she had suddenly come to him and kissed him, only for the third time ever. And he had felt the breath leave his body. How had she known to do it? How had she known to kiss him like that and destroy any walls that had been creeping up? And when she pulled away he was speechless, and yet she was smiling widely and her face was warm and bright and her hair was frizzy and wildly waving around in the fierce wind._

 _"It's so good to see you. I missed you."_

 _And the words were so simple, and even so they filled him with something perfect and he was reaching for her and he couldn't stop smiling and the wind was all around them as he pulled her against him, her waist encircled in his arms, her hair flying in his face, her body moving to meet his –_

 _"Mudbloods do not make good wives, Draco."_

 _He flinched violently, dragged her behind him as the voice sneered through the air beside his ear. In the darkness of the carriage behind them, just visible through the doorway, was a white, bald head and two glowing red slitted eyes… He pulled desperately at Hermione, who was asking him what was wrong in confusion, even as her voice became ghostly and her hand disappeared in his and he turned and found her floating away into the steam of the train, her face suddenly bloodless, her eyes blank and staring, one hand still extended as if to reach for him –_

His eyes snapped open as hands came down on his shoulders and gripped him tightly. There was one wild moment in which he did not know where he was or who was leaning over him. He seized the sleeves of the stranger, ready to throw them away, and then abruptly recognised the dark curtain of hair and the pale, narrow face hovering above him.

Severus Snape released him as the recognition registered in his face and pulled the sleeves of his robes straight before sitting back down into the plush, high-backed chair which had been drawn up next to the bed. He looked disgruntled, his lip firmly curled and his dark eyes narrowed icily. It was very odd to find his former Potions master sitting in his bedroom. He wasn't sure if he was about to be given detention or briefed on his next mission. Draco's eyes travelled upwards to the dark hangings of his own bed, over the familiar sight of his room, and then returned to him. He realised now that he was breathing hard, as if he had been running, and that his neck was stinging angrily. His head throbbed as if he had drunk an entire bottle of firewhiskey and his whole body prickled with droplets of sweat. The sheets of his bed clung to his legs.

"Have you quite finished?"

Snape's haughty voice was tight and clipped. Draco didn't speak, still wondering what exactly he was doing in his room at all. Snape jerked his head at the closed door pointedly, his eyebrow arching.

"I don't think the Dark Lord requires any more reasons to punish you."

And, suddenly, the dream he had been having – the dream that had been so horrifically vivid – rushed back over him. He felt as if the air had been knocked out of him. He stared at Snape, desperately trying to figure out how much he might have worked out. In the gap in his memory between the bloody floor of his dining room and now, he may have given himself away. Snape held his gaze indifferently, and the silence stretched on between them.

"Does it matter?"

Draco forced himself to break the silence. His voice was a rasping croak – he sounded like a dying banshee. He swallowed, winced as his throat seared, and tried to shift himself upright in the bed. Snape's unblinking eyes watched as Draco pulled a second pillow over and leaned back against it. His arms felt like matchsticks and his head felt like it had been beaten with a sledgehammer. He closed his eyes, taking stock of his body.

"Evidently not."

He would never quite get used to the way Snape's lips never seemed to move when he spoke. He cracked his eyes open warily, but Snape was looking away, out of the wide bay windows. The light streaming through them was the paleness of afternoon sunlight. His expression was completely unreadable, as if a stone wall had been carefully put together just behind his eyes. Draco was still trying to wrap his head around why he was even there. He lifted a hand and felt the side of his neck gingerly. It was covered in a bandage, but he could feel a slight tenderness in the area. A vision of the snake surging in on him made him shudder and he let his arm drop.

"Perhaps," Snape said suddenly, making him flinch, "you should try to make less noise."

He felt as if he had just been blindfolded and shoved into a room of knives. He didn't know what he could say that was safe, or whether he could be sure that Snape hadn't figured out everything he had been hiding for the last two years. But Snape was, as ever, silent and stoic as a block of ice. If he had learned any unwelcome news, he was not planning to discuss the matter.

"Fine," Draco said eventually, in as polite a voice as he had ever managed to address to a teacher.

Snape's hollowed eyes narrowed and he extended a hand to languidly indicate the bedside table. Draco twisted awkwardly to see a glass filled with a thick, orange liquid. There was a larger glass bottle of the potion sitting nearby.

"You will need to drink that promptly. It wouldn't stop bleeding. The antidote took some time to brew, so you lost a lot of blood."

Draco reached for it, furious to find his hand shaking violently as he lifted it. He took a few sips, but it tasted sour and he didn't want it. All he wanted was a painkiller, in any form. His head still hurt, and he was suddenly filled with a deep dread. What if someone had gone rifling through his mind while he had been unconscious? What if Voldemort had come back to check his loyalty when he couldn't hide? And if that hadn't condemned him, shouting in his sleep surely would have. He looked at the door, but it remained closed.

"The Dark Lord had matters to attend to outside the Manor," Snape said, as if he had asked aloud. "No one else remained behind."

He was awarded some luck then, even if only a fraction. He forced himself to take another gulp of the potion and then shoved it back towards the bedside cabinet, screwing his thumbs into his eyes in an effort to relieve the pressure in his skull. He felt horrible, but the silence of the house was beginning to unnerve him. He strained his ears for a little while longer before speaking up.

"Where are my parents?"

"The Dark Lord asked that they accompany him. Your mother was rather keen that I inform her when your condition improved."

"How long has it been?"

"Two weeks since the funeral."

The words brought a strange roar to his ears and a blankness to his mind which he now recognised as the only way he was going to make it through the hell he had signed up for. He suddenly felt tired to the bone, his whole body an aching, heavy mass weighing him down. He closed his eyes again. He wanted nothing more than to sleep and never wake up.

"I said I'd contact your mother if you woke up," Snape said brusquely, rising from the chair and turning away. His robes billowed, and he was once again that forbidding, bat-like creature sweeping through the corridors of Hogwarts. He paused, one hand on the doorknob, as if about to speak – but stopped as he saw Draco shoving himself upright and reaching shakily for the side of the bed, preparing to climb out.

"Care to explain what you're doing, Malfoy?"

"I… need something," Draco said lamely, unable to think of a convincing lie.

Snape's reference to Dumbledore's death had, somehow, brought Hermione to the forefront of his mind. It had been days since he had tried to call for her with the stone and she had ignored him. Maybe she had thought more about it, tried to contact him perhaps? The chance was slim, but he had to know. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and groaned as his head burst with pain. His body was shaking around him, betraying him, and a relentless wave of nausea was building in his stomach. He buried his face in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, defeated before he had even started.

He heard footsteps and opened his eyes to find himself looking at a pair of black boots and the hem of a long, black robe. A bored sigh came from somewhere above him.

"What do you want?"

He shook his head, unable to formulate words.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe the whole point of me being here was so you didn't end up unconscious on the floor."

It was pointless trying to argue. He was so obviously weak that the very idea of protesting was laughable. He swallowed back the bile that was building in the back of his throat and forced himself to uncurl from his hunched position. Snape was standing in front of him, arms folded, face stony.

"Well?"

Draco hesitated a moment longer before giving in. "There's a stone in the top drawer of my desk. I need it."

Snape's eyebrow arched incredulously, and for a moment Draco thought he was going to simply turn around and leave. But then he moved towards the desk and slid open the top drawer, rifling dismissively through his belongings, moving aside pens and quills. Draco eased himself back into the bed, leaning against the headboard, letting the tiredness descend on him once more. He couldn't find the energy to think of an explanation, nor to try to non-verbally summon the stone himself. His wand crossed his mind and he squinted around the room, concern building until he suddenly caught sight of it lying on the desk. Snape straightened suddenly, the flat stone held between his thumb and forefinger.

"This?"

Draco nodded wearily. Snape came back and stood beside him, looking at it with a suspicious, narrow gaze.

"And what is it?"

"Doesn't matter."

He held out his hand for it. Snape held it for a few long seconds, watching him, as if daring him not to explain. Then, quite unexpectedly, he dropped it into Draco's waiting palm and strode off towards the door, his shoulders stiff and unforgiving. Draco listened to his footsteps echoing away down the corridor until they faded into silence. The room felt oddly tense now that he was alone, and he was ashamed to find himself peering nervously at the ajar bathroom door, searching for the gleam of scales. Where was Nagini? Downstairs, coiled by the fireplace? He tried to push the memory of its weight on him out of his mind, but he could almost still feel its cold flesh twisting around his body. He could still taste the panic.

The stone lay in his hand, cool to the touch. He closed his fist over it weakly and, at once, it glowed hot. For a few stunned minutes he could only lie there as the warmth rolled over his skin. There were so many messages – numerous messages – the first few just nudges which became formulated words chasing across the stone's surface in golden letters. He could barely catch them. Giddy relief hit him and he felt his eyes water, blinked furiously. She had tried to get in contact. She had cared. Whatever conversations she had had, something had made her reach for him. He hadn't expected the tearful relief that hit him. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back against the pillows, feeling as if he had finally breathed for the first time in months. It took a while for him to remember that he had to respond.

Still revelling in the miracle, he tried to concentrate on her words. She was asking if he was alright, where he was, asking him to respond… He didn't know how to explain. It didn't matter anyway – when he tried, he found that all he could muster was a soft pulse of warmth – not even a coherent message. Just a signal. It had any remaining energy running out of him like water and he let it take whatever strength he had left. The world was retreating and he gladly fell asleep with his talisman held loosely in his fist.

 ** _Now_**

Hermione had only just started on the stairs to the first floor when the dining room door flew open and Hestia appeared, tucking a small notebook into her robes. She had slipped downstairs for some lunch after spending most of the day hiding out in the lounge, and had been extremely grateful not to run into anyone. Hestia's was the first face she had seen all day, and was particularly unwelcome – she had been hoping to escape the others, needing time to sort through her thoughts. After meeting Draco on the stairs the night before, she had been forced to revaluate her feelings on his presence in the house. The encounter had resulted in nothing more than an unnerving, alien distance, only proving to her how different they both were now. She wondered if, had he never shown up, she would have ever seen him again.

She ducked her head, hoping Hestia hadn't seen her.

"Ah, Hermione, afternoon."

She stopped, wincing, and glanced down the stairs. "Hi, Hestia…"

Hestia had paused by the front door, smiling. "Would you walk with me for a moment?"

Hermione couldn't think quickly enough to come up with a reason to say no. She hesitated for a moment longer before awkwardly smiling and pulling out her wand. She waved it over her books until they flickered out of existence, sending them to stack themselves beneath her bed, and headed slowly back downstairs. She pulled her coat down from the hooks near the door and followed Hestia out into the street, shrugging her shoulders against the cool city air.

 _She knows._

She shook off the little voice in the back of her head. There was no possible way that anyone could know about her involvement with Draco – unless, of course, he had told Hestia the whole story. In which case, she could very well be walking into custody of the Ministry for questioning on her relationship with a dangerous and known Death Eater… But Hestia was smiling encouragingly at her, pulling the collar of her coat straight as they strolled down the street and into the park opposite Grimmauld Place. The park was small – after all, it was London – but pleasantly sunlit and framed with tall, leafy trees. It was good to be outside after being holed up in the house all day. She glanced at Hestia out of the corner of her eye.

"How is the investigation into the remaining Death Eaters?" she asked, trying to keep her tone neutral. "Any news?"

Hestia shook her head. "No, no news. They've gone rather quiet recently – I think they know that we're closing in."

She brushed at the sleeve of her coat, peered up at the clear blue sky. Hermione waited, knowing that Hestia wouldn't be rushed. She felt guilty, like a criminal being walked to their cell. And when Hestia finally did speak, her heart began to pound in earnest.

"I wanted to talk to you about your latest resident. Mr. Malfoy."

Hermione tried to look unconcerned, and knew at once that she was not pulling it off. She could feel her cheeks beginning to grow red. Her tongue fumbled around her voice as she tried to speak.

"O-Oh?"

"I know it's a pain having him there," Hestia said with an apologetic smile. "Hopefully it won't be for long. But I wanted to check something with you, just briefly."

Hermione didn't trust herself to speak. She just nodded mutely, pushing her hands into her pockets to hide her anxiously wrung fingers as they came to a halt near the fountain in the middle of the park. Sunlight caught the sparkling droplets of water, and gave her something else to focus on other than Hestia's probing gaze.

"When I was discussing our recent progress with Harry the other night, he mentioned that Malfoy had given him cause to believe that he was a somewhat reluctant Death Eater," Hestia continued. "Would you agree with that?"

She tried to unpick the layers of the question, but it seemed more or less innocent. And Hestia's face was still friendly, still unassuming. She wasn't speaking like an interrogator. Hermione tried to concentrate on her question, on everything it carried. To answer it meant looking back at everything that had ever happened between them, and trying to evaluate what parts were true and what parts lies. Even now, she wasn't really sure which was which. She kept her gaze on the fountain. In its stone bottom she could see piles upon piles of copper pennies.

"Yes," she said finally. "I think… I think he was just scared, more than anything else."

"Do you think he would have any reason to try to gain your trust?"

Hermione frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Hermione, you're not stupid," Hestia said flatly, shaking her head. "Voldemort was famous for playing the long game. After the first Wizarding War, he remained in hiding for years. It could be that Malfoy – and the other rogue Death Eaters – are simply the pieces of another puzzle. We can never assume that Voldemort is gone."

Hestia's words dropped through Hermione's mind like cold pebbles. And the worst thing was that she was absolutely right. They couldn't take the liberty of believing that Voldemort was gone forever, that his influence would never come back to haunt them. For all they knew, the remaining Death Eaters had found some way to keep a part of him alive, some method of resurrecting him. And Hestia obviously believed that Malfoy was involved. She lifted her head to find Hestia's serious, calculating gaze trained on her.

"You're asking me if I think that Malfoy is part of Voldemort's new master plan?"

"I'm just thinking of every eventuality, it's my job," Hestia reassured her softly. "I'm not trying to scare you. But you've known him since you were eleven – did you ever feel he was dangerous?"

"No."

She knew as soon as her lips had moved that she had answered too quickly. She fastened her teeth over them, tried to pull herself together.

"I don't think so," she clarified, backtracking. "I mean… I think his parents were more involved than him. He was just a student."

"Well, you were all 'just students,'" Hestia reminded her. "And yet you, Harry and Ron managed to win a war. Individuals can be just as dangerous as armies, in the right circumstances."

Hermione nodded silently. All she could picture was the night before, the inherent coldness in his gaze as he had looked at her, his dead, empty tone as he dared her to reach out to him. She hadn't been able to. She had to accept that she didn't know who he was now, not really. Not after so much time had passed. And yet, there was always some part of her that would believe that he was the person she had always known, the person who once would have risked everything for her.

"Everything alright?"

She jumped slightly, found Hestia looking at her with a touch of concern.

"If he ever tries anything – you know, if he's pushing his luck – just you say the word and I'll take him elsewhere."

"No, no, it's fine," she said, trying to smile. It came out more like a grimace. "He mostly just stays in his room, anyway."

"Well, anyway," Hestia said, winking. "The offer's there."

She turned and made her way towards the gates of the park. She had Disapparated within a few steps, leaving Hermione alone by the fountain. She watched the water rippling brightly, watched the pennies glimmering beneath the surface, wondered how many wishes had been thrown in by passers by. She folded her arms tightly over her chest, hugging herself, happy to have a few more moments to herself before returning to the house. She didn't like the way she had been over the past few days – irrational, uncertain, uncomfortable. She couldn't help it.

At the end of the day, it all came down to whether she had ever really known who he was. Whether or not she believed he was evil.

And that was something she really, really didn't want to consider.

 ** _Then_**

On the 1st September, Draco hovered on a sleek black broomstick above cloud level feeling the frigid damp air eating into his bones. His thick cloak was one of the most expensive in the shop, but it still wasn't enough to keep out the bite of the wind. To his left Theodore Nott floated into view, his hood blown down around his shoulders by the vicious gale, his mask hanging down around his neck.

"Man, fuck this shit," he murmured, just loud enough for Draco to hear. "It's fucking freezing. This is bullshit."

Draco shot him a warning glance as Dolohov soared up to their level, giving them a quick once over before circling around and diving back down to join the rest of the Death Eaters who were hovering in a rough circle a few meters below them. He could distinguish Snape towards the edge of the group by his slouched shoulders and the spidery hands clutching his broom. Once again, he had been sent along in his father's place. His father, who could not bring himself to leave the house, sitting next to his mother, who was unable to leave her bed.

"Hey. _Hey."_

He looked up sharply. Theo was holding out a stick of gum. Draco shook his head, pulling his mask more firmly over his face.

"You ok man?"

He nudged his broom to the left, scanning the film of grey, rolling clouds beneath them. He could just about see the muffled, glowing points of light that indicated the streets below. Theo cleared his throat pointedly, and Draco tried to think of something to say. And yet what? Both of them were acutely aware that this was the first time Draco had joined the others on a mission since his failure at the end of the last academic year. In fact, if he was honest, it was the first time he had really left the house. The last month or so he had spent in his room, moving slowly between his bed and his desk. The effects of the snake bite had receded relatively soon – perhaps a week after the event – but he hadn't been able to make his way downstairs or attend any of the meetings led by Voldemort in their dining room. He had lived through silently feeding his owl tiny nuggets of bird feed and lying in a blind stupor on his bed, dreaming that he was in Hogwarts. He had never much liked the place, but at least she had been there. He kept the grey stone under his pillow, clenched inside his fist, but it never grew hot. He could only guess at what she had thought upon the discovery of Dumbledore's shattered body beneath the astronomy tower.

Either way, she had made no effort to contact him. And he did not blame her.

"Draco?"

He turned his gaze on Theo, who floated ringed by the darkness of the edges of his mask. "What?"

Theo shrugged. "Nothing. Just, you know… was wondering how you're doing. You know, since…"

For a long moment, Draco just looked at him. He wondered if he should explain that he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten a full meal, or slept a whole night through, or felt like he cared about anything. He wondered if he should describe the fact that he had not held a conversation with anyone that lasted more than two words for weeks. He wondered if it was obvious that now he only ever wore high-necked clothes to cover the scars on the side of his neck.

"I'm fine," he said.

"Ok," Theo muttered. "Just… I dunno. This thing is… well, it's… different than what I thought. Right?"

Draco looked him in the eye for the first time. Across the freezing, rain-whipped gulf between them he could feel someone reaching out for help, searching for some validation that there was another way out. Theo looked him up and down and then hurriedly pulled his hood up and fixed his mask in place, as if suddenly self-conscious.

"You shouldn't let the others hear you say that," Draco said softly, returning his gaze to the group below them. "People around here seem to have pretty keen ears."

Theo snorted softly, but did not argue. His gloved hands moved nervously on his broomstick. A few metres away the other Death Eaters were still huddled together, deliberating in soft voices, watching the clouds below. Draco kept one eye on them, making sure none of them had overheard. It was, perhaps, the first time Theo had spoken to him – or even seen him – since Nagini's attack. Apparently it had shaken the other boy more than Draco had realised. He wondered suddenly if Theo had been there that morning, one of the dark clad masked figures, and imagined how it must have been watching. The crowd, to his knowledge, had remained silent but for his mother's cries.

He was still deciding whether to ask or not when, abruptly, Yaxley was pelting towards them out of the close wall of surrounding clouds. He pulled his mask down over his face as he arrived, his shouts muffled by the surface.

"They're on their way! Move, move!"

The Death Eaters had swerved into their formation at once, and Draco took up his place at the back. Bellatrix was a metre or so in front of him. She was already breathing heavily with excitement – he could hear her pants rasping against her mask even from his distance. Her hood was down and her matted hair flying free – she did not care who recognised her. The mask was more of a statement than a disguise.

"There's loads of 'em!" Yaxely called over his shoulder from the front. "The Dark Lord is coming – just distract the others until he can get to Potter."

Draco's Mark was indeed beginning to sting hotly. He gritted his teeth against the uncomfortable prickling. The weightlessness of the flight and the sing of wind over his ears was almost enough to let him ignore it. Yaxley's closed fist lifted into the air as the group climbed higher, higher, stopped – and then, as he dropped his hand, they scattered.

He stuck close to his aunt's broom on their sharp descent, only veering off at the first bursts of fire. There were screams, shouts, flashes of red and green bouncing through the clouds. He flashed past two people on a broom – the Weasley father and a dark-haired, spectacled, scruffy boy he immediately recognised. He pulled up, torn between pursuing and simply pretending not to have seen, when a thestral came by on his other side, its great wings almost knocking him into open air. Astride it was another red-head and another Potter… And then came a motorbike with a huge mass crouched on the seat, which could only be the Hogwarts Groundskeeper, and yet another Potter…

"Polyjuice!" someone was roaring over the medley of curses and hexes. "There's loads of him!"

"Get all of them!" Yaxley's voice now, high and panicked. "Go!"

Draco pulled himself higher, drawing back from the fray and observing the chaos below. Potter after Potter rushed past this way and that, each with a different companion and astride a different steed. He had to admit, it was a decent plan. Death Eaters were scrambling everywhere, formation dissolved, unable to stay on one target for more than a few minutes before switching to another. But what Potter had planned beyond this point was a mystery. People would still die, 'Harry's would change into strangers during the fight until only one was left. Or until _he_ arrived.

A hand collided with his head, slapping him roughly out of his contemplation. Carrow soared past with a bark of laughter, sending a violent hex at one of the many red-heads. A low-set broom zoomed past after him and Draco dodged to avoid a jet of heat, recognising the lumpy, aged face of Mad-Eye Moody. He circled away to the other side at once, sending a few random spells into the mix in a half-hearted attempt at seeming involved. He didn't much fancy going head on with that particular opponent. He was about to stage a dive at one of the thestrals when a red flash broke the air.

 _"Expelliarmus!"_

A wand flew into space. And then, like a tide descending on the sand, the Death Eaters were swarming after the motorbike as it roared out of sight. Draco dodged a spell, remaining behind with several others as the stricken Order tried to distract and detain whomever they could. A number of Death Eaters were forced to stay, but at least seven had managed to pursue. And a chill was eating into Draco's bones and a shadow was approaching. He shook his head. _What an idiot…_ He whirled away and blocked a spell sent at his back, sent a fireball at one of the brooms. The riders hastily surged upwards to avoid it. As they did so he noticed a definite ginger tinge to the Potter doppelganger's hair. Apparently the potion had not been enough to last long. He lay flat on his broom and twisted tightly as he dived out of the way of another attack. His seeker instincts set in and he wove through the conflict like a fly, sending a couple of minor curses left and right as he went.

Up ahead, one of the thestrals had been cornered and was panicking as it struggled to remain airborne on the spot. He recognised Kingsley Shaklebolt leading it, using the intermittent cover of its wings to shield himself from the oncoming fire before returning. The Potter on his back had torn off his glasses as his features began to morph, as black thin hair turned thick and brown. And as the face emerged from the rippling skin, Draco felt his heart plummet like a rock. It couldn't be true – he was hallucinating. Of course she would have never shied away from a task like this, but they wouldn't have let her, surely Potter or the Weasel would have known how she'd be targeted and understood the added risk… But there was her nose, and there was her furious frown of concentration, and there was her hair cascading longer and longer down her back –

And then it happened all at once.

Kingsley found himself open from the front and kicked the thestral in the ribs, driving it harshly upwards out of the line of fire. And she sent a block at the attacker over his shoulder, letting go of him with both hands and rising up on her feet in the saddle to get the angle. And at the same time Carrow was behind her and had sent the stunning jinx straight at her head – her fucking _head –_ and that was it. It was all over in less than a second. One moment she was there, and the next she had lifted off the thestral and tumbled into the sea of clouds, disappearing from sight.

There was no time to think.

Instantly he twisted into a vertical dive and plummeted through the clouds, droplets of moisture peppering his hands and eyes, his hood flying back and off his head. His body was singing with electricity as he plunged downwards through the thick, soupy fog, the wind whipping his robes and skin, his blood roaring in his ears. All the time he was trying to figure out how high up they were, how much time he had. He burst through the final layer of cloud and made out the flickering lights of the occasional house far below. They had left the town behind them during their pursuit and emerged into neatly kept countryside. He could make out lakes dotted here and there, glistening in the dark. The pinpoints of light snaking over the roads below were the only indication of where anything was.

It was so dark that it took him some time to find her limp body, still dropping towards the unforgiving earth even as he approached. He could barely make her out through the baggy boyish clothes she had been disguised in and her wild flying hair. He flattened himself to his broom, streamlined every inch of himself, urged himself faster. His eyes were watering from the speed and his hands were aching from the cold and she wasn't bloody moving, she wasn't moving – and the ground was so close now, too close, the road rushing up hungrily to meet them, and she was going to hit it any moment now –

He threw himself forwards, launching away from his broom with all his strength, his hands outstretched, and by some miracle his fingers clutched at her sleeve. He was blinded by bright headlights and the howl of a truck's horn as it came at them, felt his broom hit him hard in the back of the head as it caught up with them, and as her weight caught at him he did the only thing he could do. In the rush he could not think of anywhere, there was no time – he could only see the lakes he had glimpsed only seconds before. His body was thrown into that terrible, squeezing nothingness and then he was back, and she was held tight against his chest now, both of his arms wrapped around her, the broom tumbling past them, and water was filling his vision.

They slammed into icy water and any breath he had had left was knocked out of him. Their momentum carried them deep into the dark coldness, their descent finally slowing somewhat. He twisted as they dropped and felt the muddy, pebbled bed of the lake collide with his back. Her hair spread across his sight as he squinted through the water, his body automatically trying to breathe, his lungs contracting harshly as water rushed at them. With everything he had he bunched his legs beneath him and pushed upwards, one arm still around her waist. Her dead weight was beginning to move lethargically, her hands attempting to grip his arm, and euphoria filled him as he clawed his way towards the surface one-handed. She was alive. _She was alive._ Her fingernails dug into his skin and he almost laughed with sheer relief, but water was clogging his nose and mouth and they had to get out, had to breathe…

They had fallen so fast that he had not realised how deep the lake was. His neck was craned back but no matter how hard he squinted he could not make out the surface – everything was dim and misty with particles of mud – all he could see was the glowing whiteness of her face nearby and of his own hand. His lungs were beginning to ache. He dug desperately in his pocket and pointed his wand below them as she began to struggle in earnest, returning to consciousness. He couldn't pronounce the spell properly underwater, but he had been practising wordless magic more and more and he was grateful for it now. He practically screamed the spell in his head.

 _Diffindo!_

At once an unseen force carried them upwards with alarming speed. He wrapped both arms around her as she slipped, her feet kicking violently at him in shock. And then, like a blessing, they had broken through the surface and blissful cold air ripped at his throat as he coughed harshly, water spurting from his mouth, finally sucking in air. He had barely managed to take a breath before her elbow collided with his face and pain blinded him momentarily. He could hear her coughing and gasping too, trying to scream at the same time.

"Get off, get – off – _me!_ "

He caught at her flying fists, still blinking hard as the stars before his eyes retreated. He could feel something hot and wet on his upper lip.

" _Let me go!"_

"It's me! _Hermione!_ "

She stiffened at once, and he had to grab her with both hands to keep her from sinking into the lake again. Treading water to keep them afloat, he let her turn around in his grip to see him. Her face was stricken, pale with fear and uncertainty. Her hair was plastered to her head, making her look sleek and small. She scanned his face warily, and it was only then that he remembered he still had his mask on. Swearing under his breath he lifted a hand and slashed it across his face, allowing the mask to disintegrate into smoke. Her eyes widened and her body trembled slightly in his grip as relief rushed over her face. She reached for him at once, her hands running over his hair to settle on either side of his neck.

"Draco," she breathed.

And just like that, he felt as if a weight had been lifted. It was as if nothing had changed, as if they could almost be back at Hogwarts and they had fallen into the lake by accident and were laughing about it… but the fear was still shimmering in her eyes, and when he looked up he could see the distant flashes and blasts above the clouds as the fight raged on. They could not hide in the lake forever.

"Come on," he said shakily, pulling her with him as he struck out for the bank.

She swam with him but he kept one arm around her waist, just in case, pulling them both forwards with one arm. When they reached the bank he put his hands on her sides and hoisted her up onto it, waiting until she had found her footing and pulled herself up before following. His robes slid through the thick mud, his boots skidding on his way up. He wiped his hands on his robes as he straightened, still breathless, still reeling from their fall. He looked up once more, trying to figure out how far they had actually fallen.

"What happened?"

She stood nearby, shivering in the thin t-shirt and hoodie she wore. She looked strange in Potter's jeans and trainers, like a child dressing up in an older brother's clothes. She held her arms, rubbing warmth back into her limbs, her wide eyes fixed on him. He had to remind himself to reply – it was so strange standing beside her once more, able to speak freely. He touched his throbbing nose and his hands came away sticky with blood.

"Carrow stunned you from behind," he said thickly. "You fell. How's your head?"

She was holding it gingerly, wincing. "It's alright." She looked at him suddenly, aghast. "Oh, Draco, I hit you – I'm sorry – here…"

"It's fine."

She was already digging in her pockets. Her face darkened in horror as she did so and she span around, scanning the grassy floor around them.

"Oh no, oh _damn_ … My wand…"

He did not remember seeing it – she must have let go when she fell. He lifted his own anyway, despite the fruitless attempt.

 _"Accio,"_ he said, fixing his mind on her wand.

They waited in silence. After a few tense moments the bushes around them rustled and her wand flew out of the darkness around them, landing in his outstretched palm. He handed it over, and then blanched as she instantly lifted it and pointed it at his face. Even as a thrill of disbelief jolted through him, he was still able to appreciate the seriousness of her face, the tendrils of wet hair swinging around her as she frowned. He was about to raise his hands when she spoke.

 _"Episkey."_

His nose felt hot and then abruptly the pain vanished. He felt it cautiously, found it familiar and smooth to the touch. He dragged the sleeve of his robe across it in an attempt to wipe off some of the blood, ashamed that he had actually thought she was about to curse him.

"Thanks."

"You caught me?" she said, looking up at the sky.

He found himself laughing. "I tried," he muttered, somehow able to smile. "The lake caught us, really."

Her serious brown eyes met his. "Thank you."

He shrugged awkwardly, and he suddenly felt confronted with the strangeness of the situation – she wearing Potter's clothes in an attempt to save him from Voldemort, he in his Death Eater robes. It was such an odd juxtaposition with what they used to have, between what they should be doing and what they were doing. He turned away and stretched his hand out towards the lake, shivering as the wind tore at his damp skin.

 _"Accio."_

His broom jerked out of the water with a gentle splash and span towards him. He caught it and brushed off the mud, straightened the branches at its tail. It was a little worse for wear, but somehow it had survived. He was surprised it had managed to come with them when they had Apparated. It must have been stuck between them when they went. He could feel her staring at him and cleared his throat, trying to seem focused on his task.

"What happened to you?"

His hands stilled on the broom. "What?"

"You… I haven't heard from you since Dumbledore… Well, you answered me once, but it felt so…" She trailed off until he looked at her. Her lips were parted but it took some time before she spoke again. "Are you ok?"

"I'm fine."

"Are your parents–"

"They're fine."

Silence spread between them. He hated it. It was becoming a dangerous trend whenever they had a chance to speak, and it reminded him that they would never really be able to talk again. Their worlds were too far apart. She was looking at him as if she wanted to say something – she always wanted to say something – and yet she didn't. Perhaps because she knew how hopeless it all was. He tried to focus on the flashing clouds high above them.

"How're we going to get you back up there?"

She followed his gaze, clawing her wet hair back from her face. "I don't know."

For one heady, wild moment, he found himself smiling. "Say that again."

She shot him a pointed glare, and it was so familiar that he could almost forget all about the mess they had got into. He swung his broom around and climbed astride it.

"We're going to have to fly back up," he said in answer to her narrowed eyes. "I'll try to get above them and drop you –"

 _"Drop_ me?"

He looked at her startled face and a smirk that hadn't crossed his face in months came back.

"Drop you," he repeated delicately. "Yes. You'll make up some story about how a Death Eater caught you and tried to take you away, and you fought them off and managed to fly back in."

"Fly back in?" she repeated, letting out a short laugh. "Everyone knows I can't fly a broom."

"They won't ask too many questions, not if they're happy to see you. Say you fell off and landed on the thestral just by luck."

She shook her head. He raised his eyebrows.

"You have a better idea?"

With a heavy sigh, she climbed onto the broom behind him and put her arms carefully around his waist. He let himself enjoy her closeness for a moment before kicking off from the ground and surging upwards. She shrieked and clung tighter as they picked up speed. He squinted into the clouds, veering off to one side, wobbled as her weight sent them off course a little.

"Lie flat," he called over his shoulder, leaning forwards himself.

He felt her head press against his shoulder and considered flying off into the night and simply never returning. But they were approaching the continuing fight and as they climbed through the cloud layer he became acutely aware of how quickly they could be found out. He carried them up above the commotion and came to a halt high above, feeling her shaking through his robes.

"Can you see them?" she murmured into his ear.

The clouds were too thick – all he could see were shadows. He retrieved his wand from his robes and pointed it cautiously at the clouds. With it, he could just about make out the silvery outlines of several figures. And there, thankfully near the top of the fray, was the large form of a thestral with only one rider. He watched Shacklebolt fending off the three Death Eaters circling around him. With two wands – he must have caught Hermione's before she fell.

"We'll have to be quick," he said.

"Draco?"

He turned his head, and her face was right beside his. Her serious eyes fixed on his own and then, abruptly, she closed the distance and touched his lips lightly with her own. He sank into her, letting himself have the moment. Her warmth was so tangible, so immediate that he couldn't even think about warning her about the Death Eaters swarming below them. He didn't care how risky it was. She broke the contact and he felt her breath on his skin.

"Come back with me."

He shook his head. She rested her forehead against his, and the intimacy was so wonderful, so missed that he might have stayed there forever if a wayward jinx hadn't rushed past them. He quickly turned back towards the fight, urging his broom forwards a few inches. He performed the spell again and made out the thestral, now just below them. He looked back at her, found her staring back at him tremulously.

"If you ever need me," he began, and then stopped.

The corners of her mouth twitched slightly, as if about to smile. He lifted his hand and slowly returned the mask to his face, saw her eyes harden. And then, in one swift movement, he jerked upwards and she let go, and she fell. He surged higher and curved straight down once more, rushing beneath the bubble of fighting, but no body plummeted past him. As he rose once more, wondering breathlessly whether to enter, the thestral roared out of the clouds. He only missed it by rolling upside down in mid-air and tumbling away – even so one of its hooves hit his shoulder, sending a sharp jolt through him that almost dislodged him from the broom. As he rolled right side up again he caught a final glimpse of her brown hair flying as the thestral disappeared into the night – she was on. She had made it.

 **Lots of flashback in this one, and not much of Hermione's POV. Hopefully it was ok.**

 **Reviews are welcome, thanks for reading!**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

 **I'm going to go a little AU in this chapter and the next - just a little, I promise. Mostly, the flashbacks keep to the structure of the originals storyline.**

* * *

 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

* * *

They Apparated onto a small hill, and Draco came into contact with the ground with a cigarette half out of the silver case in the inside pocket of his jacket. He shot a burst of fire into the air from the tip of his wand to light it, felt the heat against his face as he inhaled. The area was grassy, quiet, pleasant – the small, odd-looking house on top of the hill looked like something out of a children's storybook. There were weird stained glass windows in the front door and odd contraptions lying half-finished in the garden. In fact, it looked exactly like the kind of place Luna Lovegood would live. The sun had only just dipped beneath the horizon, leaving a red glow behind it, the sky rapidly darkening. Draco had noticed that they tended to begin most of their work at this time. These days he rose in the afternoon and ate dinner in the early hours of the morning.

The group that was with him this time was smaller than usual. Avery Jr. was there – a man he'd had very little contact with, and who also smoked. He was quiet enough, his forehead perpetually furrowed as if he was constantly in the process of working out a difficult math problem. Draco knew he had fought in the First Wizarding War, but evaded capture with the old 'Imperius curse' story. He'd worked at the ministry, being a few years younger than Draco's father, and Draco had seen him occasionally at parties and formal dinners. Also with them were Travers and Selwyn, who were currently making their way up towards the house. Selwyn was older, perhaps of a similar age to Avery Jr., and had also fought in the First Wizarding War. Travers was younger, closer to Draco's own age, but with a streak of loud brashness that Draco disliked. The whole expedition filled him with a heavy sense of dread. But he hadn't been asked to attend any of these 'visits' in some time, and he knew that declining was not an option.

So he took a long drag of his cigarette and watched as Selwyn strode up to the front door and rapped sharply on it.

 _Maybe they won't be home. Maybe they already went into hiding._

The door opened, and Draco's stomach sank. He watched as Selwyn cocked his head, speaking to someone inside. The door opened a little wider to reveal a middle-aged man with long blonde hair and strange clothes – he was also wearing a large hat with some sort of net attached to either side. It could only have been Xenophilias Lovegood. He was shaking his head emphatically, rapidly paling as Selwyn continued speaking. Then he made the mistake of trying to shut the door.

Within a matter of seconds, Travers had blasted the door from its hinges and the two of them were storming in. Avery Jr. cleared his throat and made his way up the path to the door, jerking his head at Draco. Slowly, clutching his cigarette, Draco followed.

Inside, Travers was already sending a volley of hexes and jinxes at the ramshackle kitchen they entered. Draco ducked, narrowly avoiding a saucepan, which was thrown through the kitchen window behind him. Xenophilias Lovegood was panicking, rushing to and fro in an attempt to rescue his possessions, his face filled with blind panic, his hands trembling violently. He had not even drawn his wand. Avery Jr. cleared his throat again, removing his own wand from his robes.

"Travers – _Travers,"_ he said, his tone flat with annoyance. "Do hurry up."

Travers halted his attack and sauntered over to the spiral staircase which led up into the rest of the house, smirking at Lovegood as he went. Draco put his cigarette between his teeth once more, leaning back against the kitchen sink. He watched the older man look at them all in turn, as if searching for a friendly face. It was strange not wearing the masks. But now there was no reason for them. Voldemort had entered the Ministry at every level. There was no hiding anymore. He heard a crash from upstairs, a shrill voice, and Lovegood seemed to finally pull himself together. He straightened up, like a baby dragon puffing up its chest.

"What do you want?" he demanded, his voice trembling.

" _Quibbler's_ a funny name for a magazine," Avery Jr. said gruffly, looking around disdainfully at the kitchen.

Lovegood's face turned ashen.

"And this Potter," Selwyn spoke up. "He's a dodgy character to be associated with."

"I d-don't know anything about P-Potter," Lovegood said. "I didn't… I d-don't…"

He was actually stammering. He couldn't have been less convincing if he tried. Draco glanced up at the ceiling as the shrill voice cried out again upstairs. He could hear the sound of furniture being overturned, the sizzling burst of spells impacting with walls. Luna seemed to be putting up a fight. Something in his gut twisted and, as he heard footsteps on the stairs, he made a point of staring at the end of his cigarette. He heard Travers forcing her down the stairs, knew that he would have one hand fisted in her hair and the other pointing his wand at her threateningly. He heard her father make an odd, strangled sound.

"There's no point denying it," Avery Jr. was saying. "We already know that you are affiliated with Potter and his supporters. And, since the Dark Lord is merciful, we are not here to punish you."

A scuffle, a whimper – Draco looked before he could stop himself. Luna Lovegood was standing almost directly opposite him, her eyes wide with fear, her long blonde hair dishevelled, a mark on her cheek steadily reddening. Travers had twisted one of her arms up behind her back and had the tip of his wand against her head – her eyes flickered towards the glowing tip every moment it so much as twitched. She glanced suddenly up and looked right at him. He saw the recognition in her face, followed quickly by stony resilience. He would have given anything in that moment to shrink into nothing.

"What do you want?"

"No need to feel special," Selwyn said, gesturing vaguely. "You're just a name on a list. Those who have chosen to be Potter's allies are, by default, our enemies."

"I have no information on Potter, I don't –"

"Just a precaution, old man," Avery Jr. interrupted. "Potter has a limited number of places he can go. So if – and _when_ – he shows up here asking for your help, you'll remember that there's a very good reason to let us know."

On cue, Travers shoved Luna forwards and began to march her towards the front door. She started to struggle at once, swinging at him with her elbows, twisting desperately. Her knee caught him in the shin and he released her, fury flashing across his face. He lifted his wand and red sparks leapt from the tip. Draco had seen it happen all too many times, and he knew what was coming next. Even as Luna span around to face her attacker, her hands fists, as if she thought she could actually physically fight back, Travers was stabbing his wand towards her.

 _"Cr-"_

Draco stepped forwards, slashing his wand. He was relieved that his non-verbal magic had become advanced enough to beat spoken incantation – the ropes that appeared and wrapped themselves around Luna's wrists simultaneously jerked her towards him, and Travers' curse hit the front door instead. Draco caught hold of Luna by the back of her jumper, pretending to be focused on restraining her, pretending he hadn't even noticed Travers trying to curse her. He held on to her tightly, levelling his wand at her face, pulling a cold mask over his face as she stared up at him with wide, furious eyes. She opened her mouth.

 _"Silencio,"_ he muttered.

Her lips snapped shut. Across the room, Xenophilias Lovegood was shrieking desperately like a panicked bird.

"Please, please don't take her – don't hurt her – "

"Don't worry, Lovegood, your little girl will be treated with the upmost care and respect," Selwyn said, speaking loudly to be heard above his pleas. "All we ask in return is your compliance."

Luna was shaking her head violently, trying to make eye contact with her father. Her insistence on fighting back was making Travers' lip curl, and once again his wand began to lift. Draco pushed her hard towards the door before Travers could find another excuse to curse her. She stumbled but he forced her on, aware of Travers' eyes on the back of his neck, doing his best to remain expressionless. She dug her heels in, but with her hands bound he was able to manoeuvre her out of the door and down the front steps, leaving the others behind in the kitchen. She tried to kick him but he evaded her easily. A brief glance over his shoulder told him that Travers was waiting at the top of the steps, watching the others finish their discussion with Xenophilias Lovegood. They didn't have much time.

Her elbow caught him in the side and he wrestled her further away from the door with a grunt, gritting his teeth in frustration.

 _"Stop_ struggling," he hissed under his breath. "Don't give them a reason to hurt you. They're not here to kill you or your father – just keep your head down."

She stamped on his foot.

He yelped without meaning to and let her go. Before he could hope to make an attempt at catching hold of her again she was running, down the hill and towards the surrounding fields, her blonde hair flying in the wind. Travers' voice roared like a whip crack from behind him.

 _"Crucio!"_

She dropped like a stone to the ground and curled into a ball. Draco gripped his wand tightly, rooted to the spot. He couldn't defend her now without arousing suspicion. A hand came down on his shoulder and he flinched as Travers came to stand beside him, grinning widely.

"You're gonna want to toughen up, Malfoy," he smirked. "Can't have the sheep running off on you, eh?"

He clapped Draco on the back before making his way down the hill towards Luna's crumpled form. Draco watched him go. She was trembling, trying to get up – he doubted she had ever been hit with _Crucio_ before. Travers reached Luna, grabbed her by the arm, and Disapparated. From outside the house he could still hear Xenophilias yelling distantly, still begging for them to bring her back. He should have saved his breath. She wasn't coming back. They never did.

 ** _Now_**

"Luna?"

"Mm?"

"What do you think of Malfoy?"

Halfway through her book, Hermione groaned inwardly at Ginny's question. She ducked her head, letting her hair surround her like a frizzy curtain, hoping the topic would pass them by. She was sitting in the living room with Pavarti, Ginny and Luna, having spent the morning with them volunteering on the grounds of Hogwarts. The weekend had crawled by uneventfully - if Draco ever did leave his room, it must be either late at night or whenever the rest of them left the house. She had not seen him since that night on the stairs, although she heard the others muttering about him now and then - Dean had run into him in the corridor, Hannah had seen him in the living room looking at books, Harry had caught sight of him coming out of the kitchen. Hermione had not, although she would have found it much easier to take her mind off his odd, silent presence in the house if the others didn't insist on talking about him so much.

Luna's voice was calm and lilting as she replied.

"Why should I think anything of him?"

"Well, you were a prisoner at Malfoy Manor during the war," Ginny elaborated, unfolding from her lounging position on the sofa. "You must have spent some time with him."

Hermione felt her stomach jerk a little. She hadn't thought of that – of course, Luna would have seen Malfoy when she herself couldn't have. She might have more of an idea of how much he played the role of Death Eater when she wasn't around. Hestia's words had shaken her somewhat – until their conversation, she had simply been nervous because of the possibility of their past becoming public knowledge, or of the uncertainty of how he would react to her. Now, she couldn't help but wonder if their whole relationship had been some kind of trick, a back-up plan should Voldemort's war efforts fail. She raised her head, watching as Luna, who was sitting on the floor of the living room making odd, woven bracelets out of dried grass, cocked her head thoughtfully.

"Not really," she said. "He was one of the Death Eaters who kidnapped me. But he didn't really do anything."

"Nothing?" Ginny pressed.

"He took me outside when they came to get me," Luna said, frowning. "And he told me to stop being difficult, keep my head down."

"What did you say?" asked Pavarti, who was sitting beside Ginny on the sofa.

Luna smiled innocently. "I stamped on his foot."

Ginny burst out laughing, and even Hermione couldn't help but smile. She could just imagine how ruffled and furious he would have been, desperately trying to regain his composure in front of the other Death Eaters… but the smile faded as she pictured the scene in greater detail, and remembered that it had begun with one of her friends being taken prisoner.

"I never really saw him at the Manor," Luna was saying. "Mr. Ollivander and I were kept in the cellar the whole time. There was another man – Wormtail, I think – he brought food down now and again."

"You must have been terrified."

Only Luna could be recounting being held prisoner by Death Eaters and respond with little more than a shrug and a faraway smile.

"Well, they needed me to control my father. So I wasn't in any immediate danger. Of course, it wasn't very pleasant."

She turned suddenly to look at Hermione, who had time to feel the panic of a deer in the headlights before the question was posed to her.

"Didn't you say he helped you escape? When the Snatchers caught you?"

Ginny and Pavarti looked at her with interest. She swallowed hard, laying down her quill on the small table. She didn't know quite how much Ron and Harry would have told them about that day at the Manor – one of her worst memories of the war. And one of the most confusing. It had been possibly the biggest risk he had ever taken for them - and a moment which she had clung on to ever since as proof of who he really was. But that had been nearly a year ago. Time hadn't managed to heal the scars on her forearm, and probably never would. She rubbed them unconsciously as she replied.

"Yes," she said. "I think so. He lied for us."

"Why would he do that?" Pavarti asked.

Hermione bit her lip. At the time, she had known exactly why he had done it. She shook her head wordlessly, trying to shrug off the question. Ginny was twirling a strand of hair around her fingertips, frowning, as if puzzling out the event in her head. Her Jigglypuff leapt enthusiastically up and down on her knee.

"He could have been trying to get you to trust him in case Voldemort needed a double agent. But then, he would have chosen terrible timing – I mean, they as good as had you, and you escaped. We just don't know who he is–"

"Shh," Pavarti said suddenly, and Ginny broke off.

They listened. After a few moments, Hermione's pricked ears caught the sound of slow footsteps coming down the stairs, passing by the living room, and continuing on downstairs. Ginny glanced around at them all.

"Are we the only ones in?"

Pavarti nodded. Ginny huffed a short laugh.

"Well, what d'you know – he does leave that attic sometimes after all."

Hermione gripped her pen tightly until she could no longer hear the footsteps. A door slammed somewhere in the belly of the house. She could only assume that he was going down to the kitchen to scavenge some food. Across the room, Luna sighed.

"What?"

"I was just about to make some tea," the other girl said. "But it's always terribly awkward when he's around."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, for goodness' sake, Luna..."

But really, she had no right to admonish Luna for not wanting to go downstairs. Not when she had been avoiding him more avidly than anyone else in the house. The words died on her lips even as a jolt of frustration lurched through her. She felt like a child, sneaking around the house, refusing to face up to her problems. She was supposed to have fought a war - how was it that she was too nervous to simply go up to him and find out what was going on? She stood up, throwing down her quill, resolving to no longer creep around like a criminal. More than that, she felt she had to see him. Only then could she really put her concerns to rest and decide which side he was on.

" _I'll go._ What do you want?"

She emerged from the room with an order for two glasses of pumpkin juice and a camomile tea. Apparently, despite their talk, they had no desire to be in a room alone with him either.

When she reached the kitchen and inched the door open, she found that he had his back to her, wrestling with a can of something. He was obviously trying to get it open, but seemed to be having difficulty getting the right leverage - the arm that held the can opener was stiff and uncooperative. Her eyes paused for a moment on the silvery white scars she could just see emerging from the collar of his sweatshirt. The sight of them somehow humanised him - she could still remember the look of defeat and embarrassment in his face when she had first seen them. She let the door swing shut behind her and he flinched upright at once, turned around, one hand moving automatically to his wand. The memories disappeared at once - his face was dark with simmering anger, his eyes narrowed coldly. His hand remained on his wand as his eyes skirted her face.

"I'm not here to duel you," she said, glancing pointedly at his hand.

He let go of his wand. "Did you want something?"

his words were scathingly cold, and she folded her arms tightly across her chest as if in defence. She knew that tone. He digging in his heels, ready to completely disregard anything she was about to say. Not a good start.

"I just had this crazy idea that we could talk instead of avoiding each other."

"Fine. What do you want to say?"

As usual, he was as unrelenting and uncompromising as a brick wall. She wasn't sure what else she had been expecting. But if he wanted it to be like that, fine - she could be direct too. She let her voice turn hard.

"Where have you been? It's been months since we've spoken. Where did you go after the Battle?"

"I took a holiday."

He returned to his fight with the can. She watched him struggle for a while before he let out a grunt of frustration and tore his wand free, pointing it at the stubborn metal container. She stepped forwards and swept the can and the tin opener out of his way, fastening the tool over the metal lip. She sliced the lid off cleanly, raising an eyebrow at him.

"You'll spill it everywhere if you blast it open."

"I didn't ask for your help."

He snatched it away as she lifted the lid free and shook the contents aggressively into a bowl. Scowling, she dropped the abandoned lid into the bin. She tried to busy herself with putting the kettle on to boil and pouring out the pumpkin juice, but she had never been good at mincing her words. Before long they were overflowing.

"What's the matter with you?" She burst out, turning to face him. "Why are you being so..."

"Difficult?" he filled flatly in as she searched for the right words. "Inconvenient?"

"What do you mean?"

He smirked, drawing his wand free and twirling it between his hands. "Don't bother, Granger. You've made it quite clear that I'm interfering with your perfect little post-war fairytale."

"That's not-" she broke off, started again. "I haven't heard from you in months, and now you just show up and… and you're acting like we never…"

He wasn't even looking at her. He was staring at the bowl, his wand raised, his eyes narrowed almost in confusion. He frowned and pointed again – the tip of his wand flickered uselessly. He never usually had trouble with wandless magic, and the lack of effect his efforts at a simple heating charm was having was unnerving. There was the possibility he was trying a spell she was unfamiliar with, but the perplexed look on his face suggested otherwise.

"Having trouble?"

He shot her a glare. "Get to the point Granger."

She lifted her chin, fixing him with a sharp stare. "What was going on the other night?"

"Want to be a little more specific?"

"You don't sleepwalk." She watched his shoulders grow tight, and knew she had hit gold. "Ever since you got here you've been quiet. You've been hiding out upstairs like you're in hibernation."

"You know what, you're right." He tapped his finger mockingly against his chin. "When's Scrabble night? I'll bring the chocolate frogs."

He was trying to make fun of her, but she could hear an anxious edge to his voice which told her she had touched a nerve. That and he was starting to root through the kitchen drawers, looking for something, slamming cupboard doors in a steadily building rage. No matter how much he had changed since they had known each other in Hogwarts, she still knew his mannerisms. She folded her arms.

"You're hiding something."

"You know what, Granger?" he turned around and faced her, his face frigid with rage. "No one fucking asked you. For once in your life, why don't you just mind your own fucking business and piss off?"

"What is it?" she demanded, refusing to back down. "Is it the Death Eaters? If you're involved somehow–"

"For fuck's sake, the whole lot of you around here are broken records. _I'm not involved with the Death Eaters!"_

He whirled away from her and stabbed his wand violently at the bowl – it vibrated with the rush of heat that flew out of his wand, almost tumbling off the counter. She flinched without meaning to, and his gaze pinned her down again. His face was an icy mask, his lip curled. Every line of his body was defensive.

"What, Granger? Are you scared of me?"

She tried to laugh, but it came out too small. He took a sudden step towards her and she moved backwards before she could even think about it, her hand flinching towards her wand. She forced herself to snap out of it, but it was too late – he was already shaking his head, smiling humourlessly.

"So you are. Great."

"I'm not scared of you," she snapped. "I just… I feel like I don't know you anymore. We used to be there for each other, no matter _what._ Is all of that nothing now?"

"You tell me," he snarled, reaching for the bowl. "You moved on pretty quick."

"Don't try to tell me how I feel. And _don't_ change the subject." She moved into his way as he tried to push past her, and he drew back as if she might burn him. "You _are_ hiding something."

"You're right," he muttered. "Actually, I was going to kill you all in your sleep. But now you've found out, so I guess it's off."

He tried again to move past her but she moved, placing herself in his path and forcing him to stop. He was pointedly evading her gaze, but from this close the tension in his clenched jaw was painfully obvious. He seemed to have lost weight since she had last seen him, and his eyes were ringed with dark circles. He tried to side-step her, but when she again blocked him his eyes finally shifted to fix on her.

"What's going on?" she hissed. "What's happened to you?"

 **~O~**

The kitchen door flew open, and he almost jumped out of his skin at the sudden intrusion. He closed his mouth at once. He couldn't believe that he had actually been about to tell her _._ Then again, she always had been able to draw things out of him. And there had been so little space between them, and it had felt so heady to be so close to her again... Perhaps it was just the effects of the curse. It would certainly explain the difficulty he'd had casting the heating spell. The way his wand had abruptly refused to obey him had set him on edge - he'd never before struggled with simple charms like that. He'd had a quiet couple of days in the attic room, but the pressure in his head had been building towards another attack for a while, and he was running dangerously low on the nightshade. He had only come down in the first place to find food, hoping that he would feel better after eating. He hadn't been looking for another argument.

It was just his luck that Hestia Jones was now standing in the doorway, her hair in its usual serious ponytail, her eyes flickering between the two of them. Her gaze settled on him in a familiar, accusatory fashion.

"Afternoon, Hermione," she said briskly, coming into the room. "Everything alright?"

Hermione was still watching him, her nostrils flaring, her forehead lined with anger. But her shoulders heaved in a deep breath and she smiled unconvincingly at Hestia, reaching for a tray to pile her drinks on to.

"Fine, Hestia. How are you?"

"Very good indeed," Hestia replied, looking pointedly at Draco.

He hated that look. It meant she was about to play a card she had recently acquired, and he didn't want to get into that now. He wanted to go back to bed. Leaving his room always seemed to turn into such a huge mistake that he wondered why he still bothered trying. Hermione's cheeks were flushed red as she turned away from the counter, laden down with her drinks – Hestia held the door for her as she headed for the stairs.

"I think the Ministry is conducting a hearing soon, Hermione," she said as she passed. "Perhaps you would like to shadow me during it? Didn't you say you were interested in becoming a lawyer?"

"What? Oh, yes," Hermione said distractedly. "Sure. Thanks, Hestia."

"No problem."

She continued out and up the stairs, and Draco made a half-hearted effort to leave too. As expected, he barely managed to take a single step before Hestia had closed the door firmly.

"No, sit down, Malfoy," Hestia said, pointing at the kitchen table. "I think it's about time we had a chat, isn't it?"

She pulled her notebook from her robes, retrieved a quill, and scribbled something down. When she noticed he hadn't moved, she looked pointedly at the kitchen bench once more. Slowly, begrudgingly, Draco sat down at the table. Hestia sat herself opposite him and, after scribbling something else down in her notebook, looked up at him with a falsely pleasant smile.

"So," she said. "Let's start at the start, shall we? How's your memory doing? Remembered who your friends in the alleyway were yet?"

"Travers," he said.

For a moment, she actually looked surprised. She cocked her head questioningly.

"Are we playing word association, or did you have more?"

"I think Travers might have been one of the Death Eaters I met in the alleyway," he expanded, loathing the fact that she was making him spell it out. "I think I recognised his voice."

"And Nott?"

He frowned at her, but it seemed a genuine question. He shrugged.

"I don't know. No."

"Are you sure?"

He swallowed hard. "No."

"Why are you protecting Nott?"

"I'm not…" he stopped himself, forced himself to relax and start again. "I'm not protecting anyone. Nott was in a similar position to me. I thought he wanted out too."

"Do you have proof?" She answered before he could himself. "No, of course not. You don't really have proof for anything you say, do you?"

He glared at her, forcing himself to swallow his pride and remain silent. He hated these sessions, where he was continually placed on the stand, asked to defend himself, and then rebuffed for his responses. There was nothing he could say that she would accept, and yet she refused to stop asking. She was smirking slightly now, her quill poised over her notebook.

"Where are the Death Eaters based?"

He let out a humourless laugh. "How the hell would I know?"

"Make a suggestion."

"Like _what?"_

"Malfoy." Her voice had suddenly become more serious, more aggressive. "You worked with them for over two years. You are not going to sit here and tell me that you don't know of any sites they have used, any houses that may be considered their property."

"I wasn't told anything," he insisted. "I never had any status–"

"You see, this is the problem, Malfoy," she interrupted, frowning at her notes. "We just have to take all of this at your word. And, to be frank, you don't have a great track record with the truth. On either side."

He shut his mouth. She glanced up at him, her eyebrows pulling together quizzically, her eyes narrowing. He glared back. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of agreeing with her. She shifted in her seat, her lips parted thoughtfully, her next question teetering on the brink of her tongue for a few long moments before she let it drop.

"Do you have any definitive, _actual_ proof that you did _anything_ for _anyone_ other than yourself during the Second Wizarding War? Did you ever actually work against Voldemort – rather that just being an innocent and very comfortable bystander?"

His temper was crackling just below the surface, and it took all he had to simply remain silent. He stared at the table top, traced the thin lines and grooves in it with his thumbnail. The answer, of course, was no. There was no proof. He hadn't thought to stop to collect 'proof' at the time - he'd been too busy burying any evidence as best he could. And the only other witness to whatever he had or hadn't done was remaining resolutely silent. And he'd be damned if he broke first.

"No," he said, the word ground out from between frozen lips.

She 'hmm'd thoughtfully, and he resisted the urge to scream at her. A jab of pain in his chest made him flinch convulsively and he gritted his teeth, swallowing down a groan. He dug his fingers into the table top. His head was hurting.

 _Ah, fuck…_

He'd had a quiet couple of days. He was probably due for another attack. Wincing sharply as his headache grew suddenly worse, he pushed himself up to his feet.

"Anything else?"

Hestia looked up at him, her eyebrow raised. She glanced at the clock on the wall.

"No, I suppose not. For now." She got up, tucking her notepad away. "The silent treatment isn't going to get you anywhere with the Ministry, Malfoy. You might want to decide on a story."

He liked to think that, if his head hadn't been splitting, he might have told her to go tell the Ministry to go fuck itself. As it was, his vision was beginning to shutter and the pain in his chest was becoming a persistent, angry ache. He didn't have much time. So, instead, he just turned his back on her and left, anger still simmering in the pit of his stomach. He left the untouched bowl of soup on the counter. He'd lost his appetite.

 ** _Then_**

 ** _War Years_**

Draco could only remember one Christmas he had ever fully enjoyed. And the only reason he had done so was because he and Hermione had been happy, and there had been a stone growing warm in his pocket every couple of minutes with a message. He had spent most of the time in his room, sending brief thoughts back and forth with her, and she had told him that she had not taken off the necklace he had given her the whole day, and he had smiled. Perhaps it was pathetic that that the Christmas spent in his bedroom, rather than the Christmases with stone-faced distant relatives and terse, forced conversation over the vast dining room table, was the best he could remember.

Even when Voldemort had taken hold of everything, including that very table downstairs, Christmas still somehow came about.

Nobody really seemed to notice, apart from perhaps his mother who made up some mulled wine. But it seemed ridiculous to even engage in having it, not with the place swarming with Death Eaters. They were still hunting for what remained of the Order, still trying to track down where Potter was hiding, and so it was a somewhat muted day. He retreated to his room as soon as he could and lay there on his bed, trying to imagine that he could be anywhere else. At one point a muted hubbub erupted downstairs, but he ignored it. Maybe the other Death Eaters had discovered the mulled wine.

It was only when footsteps came hurrying up to his room and a timid knock sounded on his door that he roused himself. He got up and opened the door to find his mother's strained, anxious face peering in. He stepped back to let her in, but she shook her head.

"I just came to tell you to stay in your room," she said in a low voice.

"Why?"

"I think there was a close call – I think He almost caught Potter."

Draco, who had automatically reached for his wand at her worried tone, instantly froze. He stared at her, his mind racing.

"What? What do you mean almost?"

"He had a trap set up somewhere," his mother replied, shooting an uncertain glance over her shoulder. "He tried to catch him, but they didn't manage it… He's angry."

As she spoke there was a loud crash and a yelp from somewhere downstairs. They both fell silent for a few seconds, listening for more. Draco gripped his wand tightly, his nerves on edge. His mother reached for his arm, pulling his attention back to herself.

"Please, stay in your room," she repeated urgently. "He's angry and… and we're not going downstairs tonight. Alright?"

He nodded. She squeezed his arm once more with a tiny smile and then turned on her heel and strode off down the hall towards the other bedrooms. He waited until he heard her door close before retreating into his own room, still holding his wand. Not sure what else to do, he headed for the window, ears strained for any more noises from downstairs. He could just about hear distant screaming – someone was taking the brunt of their leader's anger.

Time passed slowly. He paced his room, trying to gauge whether it was safe to go downstairs yet or not. He wanted to know exactly what had happened. Potter may not have been caught, but there was every possibility that someone else could have been… He would have to find out carefully, without asking directly what had happened. If he was heard discussing the failed mission the Dark Lord's anger would surely be turned on himself. He chewed on his lip, twirled his wand between his fingers, and then was suddenly hit with an idea. He crossed his room in three quick strides and tapped the side of his mattress with his wand. He passed his hand through the material and, after a moment's hesitation, closed it around the small pebble waiting inside.

And even as he lifted it, it suddenly grew hot.

He almost dropped it in surprise, and then fumbled to read the message which flashed quickly across it. It was accompanied by a strong rush of deep, sickening fear which instantly sent adrenaline pouring through him.

 _SOS._

That was it. Short, desperate. He held the stone tightly in his fist, almost muddling the message in an effort to reply.

 _I'm here. What's wrong?_

He waited, and was met with silence. He began to pace, moving swiftly back and forth across his room. The sheer lack of knowledge of what was going on was infuriating, and he was about to throw caution away and go downstairs and just bloody ask someone when the stone grew warm again.

 _Come to Ollivanders?_

He frowned in confusion. Ollivanders? The place was now abandoned, but it was still in the centre of Diagon Alley, which was currently swarming with people he would certainly not want to be caught by. He hesitated, but he didn't dare refuse. Not when everything was so uncertain. It was his first chance to get contact with her in months, and he couldn't bear to pass it up now.

 _Coming._

He sent the message before he could second-guess himself and strode over to the bedroom door. He locked it with a tap of his wand and then summoned his cloak from the wardrobe across the room. As he dragged it on he considered his options. He could walk out of the front door, in plain sight, claiming to be in need of something… No. He would almost certainly be interrogated and sent back in. Better to just go and then come up with an excuse on his return if they noticed him missing. With any luck they would remain downstairs arguing over their recent failure.

He looked around the room once more, listened for any sound of disruption downstairs. Then, steeling himself, he turned on his heel and Disapparated.

Ollivanders materialised around him with a rush of ash and the smell of burning. It had been destroyed not all that long ago, and the front door was now boarded up. He was grateful for the cover, but the sight of the wand boxes blasted from the walls and the floorboards torn up was hard to take in. Every student remembered coming to Ollivanders before their first year of Hogwarts, remembered that rush of excitement as they picked up their first wand. It was extremely dark now, and the thin, patient old man who had once hovered behind the front desk was now gone. Draco didn't want to think too much about exactly where he was now. He tried to sneak food down to him whenever he could, but he was only met with fear and mistrust. He never stayed too long.

He stood there in the gloom, trying to figure out exactly what he should do. He could see no sign of life here. For a moment the thought crossed his mind that this could be some kind of trap – how did he know Hermione had sent the message? For all he knew she could have been killed already, and the Death Eaters were simply trying to find out who was helping the Golden Trio. He took a slow, cautious step forwards, peering into the shadows in the corners of the room, unwilling to give his position away just yet. He could just see the broken shelves at the end of the back room, see the burned edges of them. He made his way towards it, glancing uncertainly over his shoulder. He could hear nothing, but he could think of nowhere else that might give someone cover. Either way, he would have to be sure to shoot first if it turned out to be a hostile.

As soon as he stepped through, he caught a glimpse of movement to his right, just inside of the doorway. He span around at once, but a wand was already inches from his face. He froze, his vision momentarily filled with its glowing point – and then heard a ragged intake of breath. He stomach flipped over.

The wand was lowered, and there she was, crammed into the corner, trembling wildly. The initial heady joy of seeing her was followed quickly by concern. Her face was white as a sheet and he could see dirt smudged on her cheek. Her eyes were wide and glassy, her hair loose and straggling around her, and as he lowered his gaze he saw that the thick sleeves of her winter coat were soaked with something dark.

He reached for her at once, catching at her arm, and she jolted towards him. Her arms came around his neck and his ears caught a ragged sob close to his ear. He clung to her, feeling slightly unsteady himself, hardly able to believe that she was there in front of him. It had been so long since he had last been able to touch her, feel her body pressed against him. He dropped his face into her hair and breathed in the smell of smoke and leaves, and then somewhere beneath it all her own gentle scent.

"Are you hurt? Are you ok?" he mumbled breathlessly, running his hands over her.

She pulled back slightly, her eyes wet with tears, shaking her head fiercely. He touched her forearms, her bare hands, saw blood streaking her skin.

"What's happened?" he asked more urgently, gripping her tighter. "Are you ok?"

"I'm fine," she said, and her voice shook, but he was just so relieved to hear her. "It's not me, it's… Will you come with me?"

He nodded without hesitation, and she held both his hands firmly. He was lifted off his feet and thrown through time and space before they both came to a stumbling halt in a thick forest, surrounded by heavy layers of snow, the tall dark trees standing vigilant around them. Snow was falling thick and fast and he brushed it out of his eyes. She was still standing just in front of him, her lips and cheeks very red in the sudden cold, and he felt the desperate urge to kiss her. He brushed the back of his hand over her face instead, wiping at her tears.

She sniffed fiercely, still whimpering slightly. "It's Harry," she blurted out at last.

The wish to kiss her was instantly crushed by the sharp reminder of their circumstances. He felt his gaze grow cold, but tried to shake the childish behaviour off. He had said he would help her, and that was not conditional on whether or not Potter was involved. And of course Potter would be involved.

"What?"

She shook her head, her face still screwed up tightly with fear and grief. "I… We went to Godric's Hollow, he wanted to, to see his parent's grave and… and we went to Bathsheba's house but she was _dead,_ she wasn't really there, and it was that snake, that horrible snake…"

His gut jerked. He didn't much like talking about that snake. He felt for her hands again but the blood seemed to be dried rather than still flowing. She hadn't been bitten. Which meant there was only one other candidate. She was trying to pull herself together, her lips still trembling violently.

"We managed to get away but… but it bit him and I tried to help, but he… it won't stop bleeding and he won't wake up and…" She was gulping, breathing hard. She looked at him imploringly, desperately. "Draco, I don't know where else to go – I _have_ nowhere else to go, and I know I can't ask you to do this but please… I need help…"

He squeezed her hands, pulled her back towards him. Her head nestled into his shoulder so naturally and he closed his eyes against the snow that was soaking into his hair. She wanted him to help Potter. She wanted him to commit perhaps the biggest act of treason against Voldemort imaginable. And yet, before he had even considered it, he knew what his response would be.

"What about Potter and Weasley? They won't trust me."

"Ron's gone," she said into his cloak. "And Harry… Harry's unconscious."

He hesitated. It was almost too easy for him – he could be in and out before Potter recovered, and no one would have any idea he had been there at all apart from her. And the words _Ron's gone_ were all too compelling to let slip by. He would be able to be there, with her, without prying eyes all around them… He let her go, holding her firmly by the arms.

"I need to collect some things from home," he said, keeping his voice steady, trying not to think about the treachery he was about to commit. "Should I come back here?"

She reached for him, her hands coming to rest on his face, and he felt like melting beneath her touch despite the snow.

"Draco, thank you… Thank you."

"Should I come back here?" he repeated, shaking off her words.

She nodded, and he reluctantly let her go. He stepped away from her, pulling his cloak tightly around him.

"I'll be back," he said, holing her gaze. "Ten minutes, ok? I'll be right back."

Her eyes remained trained on him until he disapparated, and stayed in his head long after his bedroom reappeared around him. He lurched into action straight away, delving into the cupboard beside his bed. He had some of the potion Snape had concocted after his own run in with Nagini left there – enough to work for the first dose. And he knew how to make it now, Snape had been very insistent that he learn the recipe after the monster's attacks became more frequent. He shoved the bottle into a bag lying on his desk and retrieved his old school potions kit from one of his desk drawers. She would probably have one, but just in case… He flicked through it and swore quietly. He needed that strange bark Snape had used, but the supply he had been given had all been used up. There was a slim chance the there would be more in storage in the cupboard downstairs, but that would mean going past the dining room.

He took off his cloak and left the bag hidden under the bed with it. He grabbed a towel from the back of his bathroom door and wiped off the snow from his shoes, then stood before the mirror and blasted hot air from the tip of his wand at his hair. He managed to get it looking vaguely dry, and he couldn't waste any more time trying to disguise the fact he had just been out. Pulling his jacket straight, he turned and slipped out into the corridor.

As he made his way down the sweeping black stairs of the Manor, he could hear a soft hubbub of activity in the dining room. The doors were ajar but all he could make out was a sea of black cloaks and a flurry of angry voices. The high-pitched sneer almost made the air shiver and he quickened his pace, ducking his head as he hurried by.

"My Lord, my Lord!" It was his Aunt Bellatrix. "Surely there will be some clue left behind – we will have them before long – "

 _"He was within my grasp!"_

There was a loud thud, and then a piercing, incessant hissing that made Draco's gut twist. He could almost see that snake writhing on the floor, furious at its loss, fangs dripping… He almost ran around the corner and strode to the pantry at the end of the corridor, just beside the kitchen. He crept inside and closed the door behind him, turned quickly to scan the shelves. The cupboard was large – almost a room in itself – and lined with shelves of food and bottles and produce. At the far end was the section with potions ingredients, which was usually kept fully stocked. It had run low recently, due to all the extra people in the house. And yet, with a thrill of hope, he caught sight of a bundle of dark green bark tucked away on the top shelf. Snape must have been careful to make sure there was some left over after the fiasco last time. Draco was by no means the snake's only victim.

Just as he had closed his hand around it, the door to the pantry clicked, like a gunshot in the silence. He span around as fast as he could, his hand flying to his pocket. Within the space of a second he had hidden it away and his hands were behind his back. The door was open and a face had appeared – short black hair, a stern, clean suit and a dark red necktie. Rookwood.

"Malfoy," he greeted stonily. His small, keen eyes flicked about the room before coming to settle on him again. "Haven't you realised the Dark Lord has returned?"

Draco nodded, stepping away from the shelves of ingredients. "I have a headache," he said, without missing a beat. "I haven't been down yet. I assume it's bad news?"

"Extremely so," Rookwood replied. "Potter was almost caught. 'Almost' being the operative word."

There was a short, awkward pause, in which Draco stood motionless and watched Rookwood watch him. After a beat he turned away, pulled a small bottle from the shelf behind him - a headache remedy, to flesh out his bluff.

"What will be done?" he asked, trying to sound interested.

Rookwood looked around again, as if expecting to find assailants hiding behind the loaves of bread. "It's to be decided," he said shortly. "Where is your father? He is also conveniently absent."

"How would I know?"

Rookwood's eyes narrowed. "Maybe instead of being insolent, you should go and find him."

"Fine."

Draco wove his way around the shelves and towards the door, but Rookwood didn't move. He stopped, returning the older man's gaze as calmly as possible. Rookwood looked him up and down one more time.

"I'll need to get past you if you want me to go and find him," he pointed out flatly.

Slowly, Rookwood moved aside. Draco felt his eyes on the back of his neck all the way back along the corridor, and did his best to walk slowly as if he were completely at ease. It was only when he reached the stairs did he break into a run once more. He hurried down the upstairs corridor to the room his parents were sharing – their master bedroom had, of course, been overtaken by the house's new master – and knocked loudly. The door opened a crack, revealing his father's face. He hated the fear that was shimmering so obviously there, and felt his words drop from his mouth like hard, cold rocks.

"They want you to go downstairs."

"Why?"

"I don't know, do I?" he snapped brusquely. "They're deciding what to do."

He turned away before his father could respond and almost flew back to his own room. He ducked inside and jabbed his wand behind him to lock the door. He rushed across the room, swiped his bag and cloak from under the bed, threw the material around his shoulders. He froze at the sound of footsteps approaching, one hand on his cloak, ready to throw the evidence of his betrayal under the bed again, but the steps were timid and quiet. They stopped outside his door, and he could almost see his father standing there, hesitant and silent. A soft knock came.

"Draco?"

His father's voice was wavering. He turned away from the door, that same cold anger rising in him once again. It was all his fault that this had happened, that they had found themselves here. And worse, he had been brought so fucking low. It was embarrassing to be around him, to watch him shudder in front of Voldemort with his eyes on the ground. Draco could not even bring himself to look at him. Especially after the snake incident. He listened, waiting to see what would happen, but eventually the footsteps moved away towards the stairs. Nothing. As always.

Scowling, he pulled his bag over his shoulder and span on the spot, picturing the snowy forest in his head. The pale, querulous face of his father lingered in the back of his mind.

The forest appeared around him and the cold bit into his skin instantly. For a moment he couldn't catch sight of Hermione's bushy brown hair – then she was there, appearing from behind one of the nearby trees. He delved through the snow towards her and she grabbed the hand he held out, leading him through the flurry of white specks in the air.

"I thought you weren't coming back."

"Of course I was coming back."

Her grip on his hand tightened, and he knew in that moment that he would betray Voldemort a thousand times before he let her go. They rushed together through the stark black and white forest, down a steep hill, into a small clearing. They passed through a strange, glimmering force field, like the surface of a pond, and a tent suddenly appeared. His eyes were immediately drawn to several large spots of blood which had eaten into the snow near the entrance.

Hermione released his hand and darted over to the entrance, pulling back the canvas folds. He stopped just outside, taking one final look back over his shoulder. The world was a blurry mass of snow and tall, dark, foreboding trees. The whole place seemed to be holding its breath, and he couldn't shake the fear that he had been followed. He was almost expecting Rookwood or Wormtail or even Voldemort himself to come out of the trees and strike him down, demand to know what was happening, who's side he was actually on… He turned away from the silent snow and ducked into the tent after Hermione.

The smell of blood was potent in the air, and its unexpectedness caught at him on his way in. The space inside the tent was large but extremely cluttered. Every available surface had been covered with papers, books, mugs, candles and other various items. The open space of the first part of the tent was taken up with a table, a set of bunk beds almost entirely covered in clothes and a small paraffin stove crouched on a cabinet. A cauldron stood in one corner, currently empty, surrounded by jars and boxes of ingredients. A couple of wooden steps led up to the back of the tent, in which there was another set of bunk beds, and another couple of sections off to the right. And it was there, on the lower bed at the back, that Potter was.

Hermione had already hurried across the room, tearing off her coat as she went – although it wasn't significantly warmer inside – and was dropping to her knees beside the lower bunk. Draco followed more slowly, pulling his damp cloak from his shoulders, taking in the objects around them. The place had been lived in for some time. He wondered how long they had been living like this together, on the run, huddled in the canvas walls. Camping couldn't be all that much fun in the middle of winter. He climbed the steps hesitantly, almost feeling as if he were interrupting something. This place, cramped and small though it was, felt infinitely cosier and more homely than the Manor. He stopped at the end of the bed, holding his bag under his arm, not wanting to make any noise.

Potter looked rather a state, to say the least.

His t-shirt, once light grey, was now soaked through and sweat was glistening on every inch of his skin. His hair was matted with it, his face ashen and clenched, his eyes rolling back in his head. The lightning scar on his forehead stood out sharply, a sharp red line just visible under his hair. He was jerking and flinching on the narrow bed, one arm flailing wildly as Hermione tried to catch it. Several rolls of makeshift bandages had been wrapped around his forearm, and had already bled through. Blood stained his t-shirt and the sheets of the bed and Hermione's hands as she grabbed it.

"Harry!" she was hissing. "Harry, please stop–"

 _"Move aside, foolish girl!"_

Draco felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and took a swift step backwards before he could help himself. That voice – it was so close to _his,_ high-pitched and sneering and snake-like – and Potter's face was twisting in an unnatural way. Hermione glanced up, her lips tight.

"He keeps… doing that," she muttered.

Draco held her gaze for a moment, just long enough to read there the same fear the voice had evoked in himself. He tried to focus on Potter, who was muttering under his breath. His voice still sounded eerily unnatural, but Draco could only try to ignore that. He wondered if he had been the same, and then realised that, of course, he had been. He couldn't really remember anything between feeling Nagini's teeth sink into his skin and waking up in his room a week later, but he knew from the hoarseness of his voice that he had been screaming. Nott had told him later that he had spent that time in an almost constant fit of screaming and thrashing around. In hindsight he was amazed that he hadn't given himself away more.

"Do you have blood replenishing potion?"

"Yes," she said, her face twisting. "Or we did – a bit – but he had it, and he just keeps bleeding…"

"We should make some more, then," Draco said, delving into his bag. He retrieved the bottle from his bedside cabinet and held it out. "First get him to drink that. I'll make up some more."

She took it, eyeing it uncertainly. "What is it?"

"It's an anti-venom. Snape made it."

"Snape?"

He turned, halfway back to the cauldron. "Yeah, Snape. Why?"

Her lips formed a firm line. "What's in it?"

"You really think I'd give you a fake?"

She looked unhappy. He couldn't help but feel a stab of injustice – he was risking his life, but still she couldn't trust him. He felt his face growing cold and hard. She scrambled to her feet, clearly torn.

"Look, I'm sorry, I'm not… We just have to be so careful, Draco, you don't understand…"

"I had this exact same potion," he said flatly. "No one even knew saint Potter would be having any of this."

"You had it?"

He stood there for a moment, realising that he would have to explain, and not knowing how. Eventually he simply flicked open his top button and pulled his shirt aside. He watched her eyes fix on his neck and the long, vivid scars which ran over his neck and shoulder, watched them widen. She moved over to him, lifting her hand and letting it hover just above his skin, as if scared to touch him.

 _"God,"_ she muttered. "Did you… when was this?"

He almost didn't want to tell her. "At the end of our sixth year. After I… failed to kill Dumbledore."

She stared back at him with huge, horrified eyes. He couldn't figure out if he liked her caring or not – part of him wished she'd never known. He was about to twist away when she suddenly reached out and took the potion, planted a sudden, quick kiss on his cheek.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

He just nodded, relived that she had broken the awkward silence. She turned away and knelt down beside the bed again, unstopping the bottle. He headed for the cauldron, buttoning his shirt again, suddenly self-conscious of the marks in his skin. There was a time when he would have done anything to get his shirt off in front of her. Now he felt like she would always look at him like that – with that odd mixture of horror and pity. He began to prepare the ingredients for his potion, adding in the bark and other bits from his own supply. They would need more blood-replenishing potion, too.

He could hear her trying to coax Potter into drinking the potion, her voice still tearful.

The potion didn't take long to put together, but it would need to stand for a while. He transferred it to a large second cauldron nearby, one which had been hastily abandoned at some point recently due to a dent in the side, and started on the blood-replenishing potion. He was halfway through it before he felt a touch on his shoulder, looked up to see Hermione hovering just behind him.

"How long before it works?"

He added a couple of vials to the simmering cauldron. "I don't know, maybe an hour or so."

A scrap of parchment was lying on the table nearby – he snatched it over, found a stub of pencil and began to scribble down the process. She leaned over his shoulder, and for a moment her closeness was so wonderful that they could have been going over homework together in Hogwarts.

"It's not hard to make," he said, more to fill the silence than anything else. "I needed a cup every four hours or so for the first couple of days, but after that it gets better."

He finished adding the last few pieces to the potion and stood up, finally able to turn to face her. She was standing very close to him, her face lined with tiredness. She reached for him, her arms encircling his waist, her head dropping against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her.

"Thank you for coming," she murmured. "Thank you for… I'm sorry for asking you to do it."

"Don't, it's fine."

He put his chin on her head, and just like that it was bliss again. He breathed her in, and his whole body seemed to relax around him. He felt like he was going to bed after a week of sleepless nights.

"How is he?"

"The bleeding's slowing down already." Her hand slipped under his shirt suddenly, and he felt her fingers skate over his neck and shoulder, tracing the ridges of his scars. "Who looked after you when you were hurt?"

He couldn't help but smirk. "Snape, I think. I would have swapped him for you any day."

She lifted her head, leaned her forehead against his, and he leaned back. Her hands continued to move on his shoulder, closed carefully over him.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I was angry."

He just shook his head. Her face was close beside his, he could feel her breath beating like butterfly wings against his skin. And then, suddenly, he didn't care where they were anymore, or what was happening in the world, or who was on what side.

He just needed her. And when she instantly kissed him back, he knew she had needed him too.

They came together like a wave crashing down, and he felt himself instantly becoming rock hard. He'd had no sex drive at all for the past few months but now, after just a few minutes with her, it had flooded back. Her nails were digging into his skin, her lips trailing kisses over his jaw and down his neck; he scooped her up quickly, felt her legs wrap around his waist.

"Where," he breathed.

Her own breathing was tight, her words muffled against his skin.

"Behind the curtain," she whispered.

He staggered up the stairs, tumbled through into the other section of the tent, somewhat divided from the main area. He glanced briefly around, took in a smaller section which had a small camp bed, a suitcase with clothes tumbling out of it, a small wooden table with a lantern on it which he narrowly avoided trampling as he deposited her on the bed. She kept her legs around him, bringing him down on top of her, and she was kissing him fiercely like a starving girl devouring a final meal. His hands caught in her hair, and he melted into her.

"Shit, I missed you so much," he mumbled into her lips.

"I missed you too…"

She broke off with a rough moan. He pulled desperately at her clothes, felt her hands undoing the buttons of his trousers.

Her hands closed around him and electricity rushed through his whole body. He dragged her jumper off, her t-shirt tangled up with it, and her golden skin finally came into view. He dropped kisses across her neck, down over her breasts, still fiddling with the strap of her bra. It finally fell open and by the time he had torn it away she was dragging his shirt over his head, his trousers already dropping around his knees. He stepped out of them and onto the bed, crouching over her, kicking off his shoes as he went.

Her hands ran over him, leaving trails of fire and raising gooseflesh on his skin, and every nerve in his body seemed to react like a rippling wave. He had almost forgotten how much he had missed her, and yet now it all came flooding back. He had missed her like missing breathing. She pulled him down, slipping out from below him and twisting so that she was kneeling astride him, rising up to fiddle with the zipper of her jeans. He watched her pull them off, her hair swinging around her, the muted light of the candles and lanterns setting her whole body alight with a soft glow. Her head lifted and her brown eyes pinned him down, even as he reached up to press his hands against her skin. He wanted to say something, to try to explain to her how much it meant, but he didn't know how. And he didn't need to, not really. She knew.

He sat up, pulling at her hips, desperate to feel her, and she put one hand between her legs to guide him into her. The other came around his neck, her fingers running over his lips and cheek, and as he dove into her she kissed him. Hard. Like someone taking a gasp of air after being held underwater. Like someone surviving.

 **~O~**

When she came back to herself her body was slightly damp with sweat and leaden with sleep, and she could feel the same heavy stillness in him. He was there beside her, both arms around her, and she was burrowed into his side. There was not a single inch between them. His fingers rested pleasantly on her skin. And there, like the ticking of a clock, was his steady, rhythmic heartbeat. She lay there listening to it, wondering how long they had been lying there. She wasn't sure if she had fallen asleep or not after she had dropped down beside him. The dizzy joy of having him back, like a ghost risen from the dead, had overwhelmed her. There was a point when she had thought she would never see him again. But despite the warm glow in her stomach, there was a slight unease lingering at the back of her mind. Because there was something she had meant to do, something that was important…

And then, like a ton of bricks, it hit her.

 _Harry._

She jerked upright, every trace of blissful sleepiness gone at once. Draco flinched violently beside her, instantly on edge, but she couldn't even look at him. Guilt drove into her gut like a knife at their stupidity, at the way they had just gone off together and… She couldn't even think about it. Horror rose up in her like a wave. What if something had happened?

"Oh god, what are we _doing?_ "

She flung the sheet back and darted out from between Draco's grasping hands, snatching up her jeans and jumper as she went. He raised himself up on his elbows, looking perturbed at her angry tone.

"I don't know, making the most of a shit fucking time?" he said. "Something wrong with that?"

She let out a snarl of irritation, stabbed her finger at the corner of the tent while her other hand struggled with the button of her jeans.

"Harry's still there, still _hurt,_ I should be with him–"

"Ah, no, please," he wined, pushing his hands through his hair and dropping back onto the bed with a moan. "Can't you just leave Golden Boy out for a second? Just… come back here, will you?"

"Harry's just lying there, Draco, and all you can think about is... is _fucking?_ "

She spat the word like a curse, and all at once the beautiful moment they had shared just a few seconds before was reduced to nothing. Part of her wanted to take it back as soon as she said it, but she couldn't let herself. She didn't have time to tiptoe around his feelings. Instead she watched his face grow hard and cold, saw his lip curling.

"Just a quick fuck, that's right, Granger," he said, his voice flat. "That's all I'm after."

She let out a groan of frustration, clawing her hair back out of her face. God, why, why did he always have to twist everything she said? He must know she hadn't meant it like that – he must realise how precarious their situation was! She hadn't slept enough to properly deal with the conversation. Her nerves were at breaking point, her brain wrung out.

"We are completely, utterly vulnerable!" she said, trying to keep the iciness out of her tone as she dragged her tops over her head and snatched up her wand. "Anyone could have followed you here, anything could have happened, and we just... Argh!"

She broke off with a furious noise and span away from him, storming off into the other part of the tent. She stumbled over a bag in her haste to get to Harry. He wasn't moving, and for a moment terror closed over her head – but he was breathing, and as she knelt beside him she could see that he was distinctly calmer than before. Snape's anti-venom was working fast. She scooped up the remainder of the potion and shifted forwards, tried to get him to drink some of it. He had a little, but then he was muttering and hissing again and she couldn't bear it. She let him be, checking instead on his arm. It was still bleeding, the bandages sodden through. She pulled off the old ones and snatched up some new rolls, re-wrapping the gaping gash as fast as she could.

She heard quick, sharp footsteps and glanced over her shoulder to see Draco emerging from the other section of the tent, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. His face was clenched with a cold, dead fury that made her heart sink. She hurriedly tied off Harry's bandages and laid down his arm before turning and darting down the steps after him. He was dragging on his blazer, pulling the material so roughly that she thought it might rip through.

"What? You're just leaving?" she demanded, her voice trembling.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he snapped, turning to fix her with a glare. "I missed the part where you wanted me to stay."

"I always want you to stay!" she cried, and tears of anger sprang at once to her eyes. She was too tense, too scared, too fucking tired to stop now. The injustice of it all bubbled over. "Every time I see you I ask you to stay, and every time you go running back to that psychopath!"

"Oh, yeah, I just love that guy so much," he spat scathingly. "Are you fucking serious, Hermione?"

"If you would just leave him-"

" _I can't!_ Why can't you get that through your thick fucking skull, Granger?"

He screamed at her, and she stared at him incredulously. He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes burning, and then turned his back on her and snatched up his cloak.

"You don't get to just _leave_ ," he said, more quietly now. "No one does."

"It's not-"

"And by the way, you didn't say no! It takes two people to _fuck_ , as you so eloquently put it."

"It was completely irresponsible! Harry needs me-"

"Yeah he always fucking needs you! You know what, I see what Weasley meant - if I was stuck with the two of you golden kids all day I don't think I could take it either."

She felt her face going white. Her hands were balled into fists and shaking at her sides. She couldn't remember the last time this kind of anger had descended on her. Perhaps when he had made fun of Longbottom's parents and she hadn't spoken to him for nearly a week. God, what a simple disaster that had been.

"Don't talk about what you don't understand, Draco," she said quietly. "You really don't know anything about friendship."

She knew exactly what to say to hurt him, and for once she didn't care. He stood there, speechless for once, staring at her. She couldn't quite believe she had said it herself. She felt his eyes on her like lasers as she turned away and made her way back towards the bunk beds, looking down at Harry's twitching form. She didn't know how to make it better now. She had said too much already. She knew why he would never come with her, why he would never leave Voldemort. And yet she was just so horribly aware that every person around her was slowly falling away. Every day their end goal looked bleaker.

"Why the fuck did you even call me here, Granger?" he demanded from behind her, refusing to be ignored. "See Golden Boy back on his feet and then piss off? You do realised I'm risking my life by even having that stone."

"Then throw it away," she said coldly. She didn't have the energy to fight anymore. It was all so pointless. "If it's easier for you, get rid of it."

"You know what, that's a brilliant idea."

She turned around to find him thrusting his hand into his pocket and pulling out the small, flat pebble. Her heart jerked in her chest as he hefted it in his fist, his face vicious with anger.

"That way I'll get on with my goddamn life, and the next time you get yourself stuck, I won't have to give a shit."

She held his gaze, her lips pressed tightly together. She couldn't believe that they had laid together in the other room barely two minutes earlier. Already she would give anything to be back there in that blissful ignorance. His eyebrows jumped with fury, and she realised that he was waiting for her to say something, to beg him to forgive her. She couldn't do it. She folded her arms slowly and fixed her gaze on the floor. His eyes flashed and he moved sharply – he threw the stone at her and it hit her leg, bounced off, skittered across the floor. She flinched but did not lift her head. He pulled his cloak straight, furious that still she would not look at him.

"Bye then, Granger," he said after a moment. "You have yourself a lovely war."

"Just go."

Her words fell from her lips like chips of ice, and she didn't look up to see what he did. She didn't need to – this time he didn't wait for an apology. He turned on his heel and left, shoving his way through the flap of the tent and leaving it open to the snowy wind outside.

As soon as he left she slumped down on the floor beside Harry's bed, put her head on her folded arms, and dissolved into tears. The locket was singing on the table beside her and she felt like screaming back at it. She could try to blame it for what had just happened, but she couldn't. She didn't have enough hands to count the number of times they had screamed at each other. The only difference was that, usually, they were at Hogwarts and able to come and find each other when things cooled off. And now it was impossible to do that, because as soon as he left they were in different worlds again. And the only contact she'd had with him was now lying abandoned on the floor under the table.

It was the second time one of the few people she had left in her life had walked out on her in the past week.

She made several attempts at sorting herself out to no effect. Every time she lifted her head and wiped the tears away she caught sight of the stone lying on the floor across the room from her and the grief welled up again. Eventually she threw herself across the tent on her hands and knees and snatched it up, and her feet carried her outside where she hurled it into the snow. And before she could even turn away she was on her knees once more, scrabbling about in the snow until her hands were red and raw. Her hands closed around the stone and she held it tightly in her clenched fist.

 _Draco…_

In her own pocket she felt her stone growing hot, her own message beamed back to her. The forest rose up in front of her in cold, tall pillars of judgement, icy shards of snow biting her hot cheeks. The clearing below was as silent and empty as if nothing had ever happened – his footprints had already been covered up.

She couldn't stop crying.

She went back into the tent eventually, when the light began to dim and her jeans were soaked through at the knees. She carried the stone over to her bed and raked blindly through her belongings until she found her purse. The stone – and its twin, which she tore from her pocket – nestled neatly into the segment for coins. She let it fall onto the bed and turned away, breathing raggedly, sobs ripping from her throat.

 **Hope you enjoyed it - let me know what you think. Things should be picking up in the next couple of chapters.**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

 **Again, this chapter is a little AU, but still keeps to the general story arc of the original.**

 **Thanks to everyone who has being reviewing, it means a lot and it's good to know that people are out there. It's tough tackling a fandom with such a massive following!**

* * *

 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

* * *

 _ **Then**_

 _ **War Years**_

Even Ron's return didn't soften the blow of Draco leaving her. All week she sat huddled in her bunk, the locket sapping her resolve, the two stones held in one closed fist. Harry didn't notice the change in her, or the stones - his arm was slow to heal, and the lack of a wand had severely dented his spirits. He paced around the tent when he wasn't standing watch, flexing his bad hand experimentally, his face grey and sullen. Their silence wasn't necessarily hostile - just weary. Just deadpan. She felt she had nothing left to give. When Ron finally showed up, soaked through and grinning widely, the sword of Godric Gryffindor inexplicably hanging from his side, she couldn't even be happy. At least seeing him gave her an outlet for her anger. What was worse was the way he followed her about in the days that followed, desperately trying to regain her affections in any way possible. She couldn't help but wish someone else had returned instead.

But fate has a cruel way of granting wishes in the worst possible ways. And this time, fate came in the shape of Fenrir Greyback and a group of Snatchers.

She shot a sidelong glance at Ron and Harry as the black gates of Malfoy Manor appeared before them, horribly aware of the point of the knife pressing into her neck. She hardly dared to breathe. She squinted up at the vast mansion as they were forced up the driveway - huge, yawning, dark windows, heavy, smooth brickwork, ornate window ledges... It didn't look like a cosy kind of place. And in a strange way, despite Draco's habitual black clothing and haughty sneer, she had never quite expected his home to look so dismal. She watched the windows with fear uncurling in the pit of her stomach, wondering if she would see his face. Wondering what would happen. They were frogmarched up the stone steps to the front door, where Greyback thumped his huge fist on the wood.

"We've got Potter!" he roared triumphantly. "We've got him, and we want our reward!"

Silence met his demands. The wolfish face twisted in anger and he thumped again, louder this time, every hit sending vibrations of fear through her bones. One of the doors suddenly cracked open and a tall, luminously pale figure appeared. Her eyes seemed to come before her, wild and hollowed in her face, her bedraggled hair straggling behind her. Bellatrix Lestrange. Fear began to beat in Hermione's throat as the witch emerged from the darkness of the house, her chin lifted high, her eyes narrowed, her wand flicking dangerously at her side like the tail of a snake.

"What is this?"

Her voice was dark, scathing – clearly she did not want visitors. Greyback drew himself up to his full height before her, but even he seemed reluctant to face her wrath. He glanced around at the Snatchers, as if searching for back up.

"Potter," he repeated proudly, waving a hand to present his prisoners to her. "We've found him."

Bellatrix's eyes moved slowly over Ron, over Hermione, and came to rest on Harry. For a moment, she simply looked at him. Then her lips twisted upwards in a horrible smile, and she stood back to allow them in. Hermione heard her voice hissing through the dark hall like a ghost – two hard, vicious words.

"Get – Draco."

The entrance hall they were pushed into was tall and foreboding, silent and still as the dark undisturbed water of a lake at night. She took in a sweeping set of stairs, carved from the same black marble of the floor, and several magnificent portraits on the walls before she was shoved violently through a set of double doors and into a room. It was cavernous in size, and contained a huge, glossy mahogony table. Over to one side was a vast, pristine white fireplace and a couple of black leather sofas. The walls were lined with shelves of books, stretching right up to the ceiling. If it hadn't been for the circumstances of their visit, she would have been filled with excitement at the prospects. Surely Lucius Malfoy had some first editions in his collection... Her own interest in the Malfoy's library was almost funny. Almost.

The Snatcher holding her gripped her tightly, his breath hot on the back of her neck. He had one hand fisted in her hair and the other holding the knife to her throat. She was forced to move when he did. She turned her head as much as she could to look for Harry and Ron as they were shoved across the room, caught a glimpse of Harry's terrified face. Even with the stinging jinx, she could see how scared he was. Her brain roared like a steam train, searching desperately for a plan, for something they could do… She had nothing. The Snatcher's grip on her hair hurt, dragging her back again and again to the cold truth that they were cornered. She stiffened as the doors to the entrance hall opened once more, forced herself to look. But it was not Draco who emerged, rather his mother and father. Both looking frailer and shabbier than the previous times she had glimpsed them. She with her delicate features, he with his white blonde hair – Draco's face lingered in both of theirs. They stuck close by each other as they entered.

"Bella?" Narcissa Malfoy said, folding her hands in front of her. "What's happening?"

"Did they say they had found Potter?" Lucius said, his voice tighter and more urgent.

Bellatrix's eyes glimmered. "Where is Draco?"

"He's coming."

Her blood ran cold, and she felt a sob building her throat. Because this could only end one of two ways, and she couldn't bear to think about either of them. Whatever happened, someone would be killed before the night was over. She closed her eyes, tried to think of a plan, but the roaring in her ears would offer her no peace. In what felt like a matter of seconds she heard the dining room doors clicking open yet again, and her heart leapt so fiercely she thought it might give her away. She was shaking violently, so much that the snatcher's knife nicked her neck and drew blood. She heard steady footsteps on the marble floor. She didn't dare open her eyes.

"Draco, Draco my boy, come over here." Bellatrix's breathless, high voice broke through the tension. "Look - isn't that Potter?"

A pause. She felt like screaming - she couldn't bear it. She finally risked opening her eyes and there he was, barely two meters from her. He was wearing his trademark black suit, his hair neatly slicked back, his mouth a familiar, hard line. He was on one knee in front of Harry, his aunt hovering at his shoulder. His face was whiter than ever and his hands, just visible on his knees, were balled into firm fists.

"What happened to his face?" he said, his voice very quiet.

"It wasn't us," one of the Snatchers spoke up. "Something he picked up in the woods."

"Or a Stinging Jinx," Bellatrix whispered.

Hermione felt the hairs of the back of her neck stand on end. Whatever plan they had was rapidly unravelling. They were no match for Bellatrix. The witch was leaning over Draco, almost on top of him, gripping his shoulder tightly.

"Look closely, Draco, it _is_ Potter, isn't it?"

His lip twitched. Harry was staring back at him with a mixture of fear and anticipation, his swollen face further distorted with panic. She wished she could see anything in Draco's eyes that would give her some indication of what he was thinking, but it was like looking at a stone mask. The complete lack of emotion there was disconcerting, and for a moment she thought that their argument in the tent had driven him over to their side once and for all. She willed him to look at her, but he didn't. Instead he rose to his feet and pulled his jacket straight.

"I can't be sure."

"Come on, Draco!" It was his father, unshaven and tremulous, hovering a few yards away. "If we can give the Dark Lord Potter, all will be forgiven... All will be as it was."

Draco's face hardened almost imperceptibly. He turned away, looking his father in the face, and something seemed to clash between them – a deep, burning resentment. Before it could escalate Draco had turned away, and the moment had evaporated.

"Now, we won't be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope, Mr Malfoy?" Greyback spoke up, his yellowish eyes narrowing.

"Of course not, of course not!" Lucius snapped, waving his words away.

Bellatrix was still standing in front of Harry, her wand gripped tightly in her hand, glaring down at him. Hermione looked again at Draco, desperate, but still he did nothing. He was looking at his father out of the corner of his eye.

"There's something there," Bellatrix murmured. "It could be the scar, stretched tight… Draco, come here! Look properly!"

Her voice grew shrill with frustration; Draco turned towards her. He did not go over to stand beside her. Instead he remained there, between her and his parents. He folded his arms.

"I don't know," he repeated flatly.

"We had better be certain, Lucius." It was his mother, who had retreated in silence to the fireplace. She was watching the scene, hefting something in her hands. "We must be completely sure that it is Potter before we summon the Dark Lord. If we are mistaken, if we call the Dark Lord here for nothing… remember what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?"

Lucius shuddered slightly; Bellatrix snorted. Greyback, who seemed worried that he was rapidly losing his reward, spoke up once more.

"What about the Mudblood, then?" he insisted, stabbing a finger at her.

"Wait – Yes, yes!" Bellatrix suddenly surged over, her face only inches from Hermione's. She caught her breath, frozen in terror as the woman's eyes raked over her. "I saw her picture in the Prophet! Look, Draco, isn't it the Granger girl?"

A beat. "I… maybe… yeah."

The final word was spoken in a soft, resigned tone which pierced Hermione to the bone. She curled her hands into fists and dug her nails into her palm to keep from crying out at him. Bellatrix withdrew, grinning triumphantly, a prize finally won.

"But then, that's the Weasley boy!" Lucius was saying animatedly, squinting at Ron. "It's them, Potter's friends – Draco, look at him, isn't it Arthur Weasley's son, what's his name-?"

Now that Bellatrix had drawn away, she could see him again. He had gone to stand beside the fireplace near his mother, his back turned to the rest of them. His hands were plunged deeply into his pockets and his gaze was cast down at the empthy hearth. His mother was watching him, her face slightly nervous, her lips pressed tightly together. He spoke again, still in that quiet, desolate voice.

"Yeah. It could be."

She felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her. She didn't know what she had expected to happen – after all, they had both chosen their own sides long ago. But to actually hear it, to have him stand there and condemn them to death tore her apart. She had never really thought he would do it. She stared at the back of his head, suddenly wishing she could only look him in the eyes – if she could catch his gaze, she could turn it all around…

"Well, then, that's enough!" Bellatrix cried. "The Dark Lord must be informed at once!"

She pulled back the sleeve of her robe, but Lucius was by her side in an instant. He snatched at her hand like a starving man snatches at food.

"I was about to call him! I shall summon him, Bella, Potter has been brought to my house, and it is therefore upon my authority–"

"Your authority?" Bellatrix let out a long, high laugh. "You lost your authority when you lost your wand, Lucius! How dare you! Take your hands off me!"

Lucius had paled significantly, but he held on to her even as she struggled. He spoke from between gritted teeth.

"This is nothing to do with you, you did not capture the boy–"

"Begging your pardon, Mr Malfoy," Greyback said, thrusting himself once more into the conversation, "but it's us that caught Potter, and it's us that'll be claiming the gold–"

"Gold!" Bellatrix voice dripped with sardonic mockery. "Take your gold, filthy scavenger, what do I want with gold? I seek only the honour of his… of…"

Her voice trailed off. She was staring at one of the Snatchers who had moved to stand behind Harry. He was twirling the Sword of Gryffindor in his hands. Her eyes grew huge and wide as saucers and she threw out a hand to Lucius suddenly, even as he began to roll up his own sleeve.

" _Stop!_ Do not touch it!" she shook him off at last and strode over to the Snatcher, her teeth bared. "What is that?"

He looked back at her, eyebrows raised, rolling his tongue over his front teeth. "Sword."

"Give it to me."

He laughed – and she struck. She moved so quickly that Hermione barely saw what happened. One moment the Snatcher was there, and the next he had been thrown back against the wall, sending a number of books cascading to the floor. Across the room Draco turned around sharply, drawing his wand, and for a moment she thought he was going to look at her. But he didn't. His gaze was fixed on his Aunt. The other Snatchers were crying out in anger, but Bellatrix pointed her wand in the air and let fly a stream of fire which promptly silenced them.

"Where," she breathed, her voice dangerously low, "Did you get this sword?"

"It was in their tent," the Snatcher holding Ron said. "We found it."

Bellatrix's eyes turned on them each in turn, stopping eventually on Hermione. Hermione wanted to look away but she couldn't – those dark, maniacal eyes bored into her, and she could feel herself beginning to tremble again. She wanted so much to be brave, but she had never felt more like a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf. Bellatrix's lips twitched.

"Get out."

"What?"

 _"Get out!"_

She rushed suddenly forwards and Hermione couldn't hold back a shriek as the woman's hand fisted in her hair. Bellatrix pulled her out of the Snatcher's grip and away into the centre of the room, holding her fast, her wand inches from her eyes. Hermione stumbled with her, her head smarting, her vision filled with the red sparks leaping from the end of Bellatrix's wand. She was dimly aware of the Snatcher's fleeing, clearly terrified – only Greyback stayed, baring his fangs determinedly, perhaps still fixated on his prize money.

"If it is indeed Potter, he must not be harmed," Bellatrix was murmuring wildly to herself. "He is for the Dark Lord… but I must know… The prisoners will be placed in the cellar. Take them downstairs, Greyback!"

Greyback hesitated, but seemed to think better of arguing. He strode forwards and Hermione was just barely aware of Ron and Harry struggling and yelling. She couldn't see them – her head was still forced downwards, her own hair tumbling around her in a thick curtain. Ron's voice filled the room, howling like a wounded animal.

"No! You can have me, keep me!"

"If she dies under questioning I'll take you next. Blood traiter is next to Mudblood in my book," Bellatrix leered from somewhere above her. "Take them downstairs, Greyback, make sure they are secure but do nothing more to them – yet."

Her hand twisted tighter in Hermione's hair. Sheer terror set into her as Harry and Ron were dragged out into the hall by Greyback. With a rush of desperation, she tried to kick the witch in the knee, tried to struggle free, but Bellatrix only laughed and wrenched her head back further. She couldn't help but cry out.

"Well, let's hear some answers, Mudblood! Perhaps you could tell me how the sword of Godric Gryffindor ended up in your grubby little hands!"

The wand came up against her face again and she stifled a yelp, doing her best to remain silent. Bellatrix made a jabbing motion and an odd, prickling sensation rushed over the skin of her shoulder – she flinched and whimpered desperately. The heat of Bellatrix's lips came close to her ear.

 _"Tell me."_

Hermione said nothing.

With a roar of anger, Bellatrix tore her around and threw her to the floor. She landed hard on her side, tried to scrabble away from her, but she was followed. Bellatrix was lifting her wand, teeth bared in a crooked smile, and Hermione knew what was about to happen. She tried to brace herself for it.

 _"Crucio!"_

The image of that insect twitching on the desk in Mad Eye's controversial Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson jumped into her head just before the curse hit her. She knew she must be screaming, but she couldn't hear herself. The pain was too much. It ripped through her like a storm and she felt her body reflexively curling in on itself. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think - everything was razors and fire - and then suddenly it lifted and she gasped and sobbed, clinging to the marble floor as if it could save her. That high, furious voice rang through the air around her and the whole world seemed to be trembling.

"I'm going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword? _Where?"_

Bellatrix was suddenly there again, towering over Hermione, reaching down to grab her by the neck. Her grip was like an iron claw and Hermione felt her terror bubbling up once more in the aftermath of the curse. Helpless words tumbled from her mouth.

"We found it – we found it – Please!"

Bellatrix grinned dangerously, reveling in Hermione's fear. She leaned in closer.

"You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts!" she shook her violently, and her head knocked against the marble floor. "Tell the truth, _tell the truth!_ What else did you take? What else have you got?"

Hermione twisted her face away – and suddenly, there he was. He was moving slowly towards the doors to the entrance hall, his arms still folded, his face still empty of recognition or empathy. He was leaving. He was leaving her... She choked back his name, which had almost left her mouth, and then screamed as the white hot pain descended on her once more. It blazed through her veins and she clawed desperately at the ground, trying to get away from it – she couldn't get away – it was inside her, tearing her whole body apart. Again it lifted, and again she came back to herself whimpering and shaking. She could hear Bellatrix cackling maniacally behind her, and yet her attention zeroed in on the boy standing in front of the doors, arms folded resolutely, his fine, delicate features completely and utterly unmoved. Her eyes welled up with thick tears and she couldn't hold back any longer from trying to reach for him, from trying to make contact.

"Please..."

She only whispered it, but the plea echoed in the huge cavernous room. He met her gaze stoically. Slowly, his eyebrow rose into a dismissive, cold arch.

"Don't speak to me, Mudblood."

His lips moved, but she couldn't believe he had actually spoken those words. He turned away from her and pulled open the great doors, slipped out into the hall. And just like that, her heart broke. She actually felt it – a deep, horrid ache in her chest that had nothing to do with the curse. The whole world swam with her tears and she dropped her head back onto the ground, heaving out a ragged sob. Behind her, Bellatrix was laughing even harder.

"Please? Please?" She mimicked ruthlessly. "Oh please, save me Death Eaters - grow up, you foolish little Mudblood!"

And then she struck again, and Hermione's throat caught on fire as she screamed.

 **~O~**

He stood like a pillar of ice outside the drawing room doors, and her screams shook him to his very core. He gripped the door handle as tightly as possible, trying to force down the urge to rush back in there. There was nothing he could do. His worst nightmare, the fear that had haunted him for over a year, had finally come to pass. And no matter what crazy plans of action came to him, he knew they would all fail. He stood there, breathing hard, as her keening wails rolled over him like electric shocks. His heart was thundering wildly in his chest. God, this couldn't be how she died. She couldn't die like this, in his fucking house, while he stood there and watched.

 _Then fucking_ do _something._

He couldn't. He couldn't even think straight. All he could see were her stricken, watery eyes fixed on him, begging him for help. And he had left her.

 _Fucking coward. Just like your fucking father._

He tried to slow his breathing, turned away from the door. His feet carried him away from the sound of her screams, around the corner. He collapsed against the wall, his jaw clenched tight, every nerve in his body screaming. God, it had barely been a few days since he went to her tent and they had come together. This whole nightmare had been gone - she had banished it. Just by touching him, just by looking at him.

 _If she dies, that's it._

The thought was piercingly clear. There were a hundred ways he could do it. He would stand himself in front of his mirror and he would turn his wand on himself and whisper those two words. And then he would be with her. God, maybe that was the easy way out he had been looking for for so long. A simple spell, and it would all be gone. Except... Except she would never be with him in the afterlife. Not if he let her die now.

"Wormtail!"

He just caught the cry, heard footsteps pattering across the hall. The dining room door opened, a few coarse words were exchanged, and then the footsteps were hurrying in his direction. He straightened up as Wormtail appeared around the corner, his eyes huge with exhilaration.

"The Goblin," he panted. "Get the Goblin."

Draco stepped back out of the way as he rushed to the door at the top of the cellar steps. As the door flung open Weasley's yells became distinctly audible - he was bellowing madly, his voice reverberating off the stone until it sounded as if there were hundreds of Ron Weasleys pounding against the walls of the cellar. Draco could hear him throwing himself against the barred door at the foot of the stone steps.

"Hermione! _Hermione!_ "

He moved to stand at the top of the stairs, looking down at Wormtail's hunched figure fiddling with the barred door.

"Stand back! Get away from the door!"

His shrill voice bounced off the cold walls and Draco caught a glint of silver as he drew his wand. Almost unconsciously, he reached into his pocket and closed his hand around his own. He felt suddenly more secure, more confident. Like an old friend, his wand seemed to urge him forwards. He stared down into the darkness as Wormtail darted into the cellar, wand still drawn, and then quickly returned dragging the Goblin with him. He shut and locked the door behind him and hurried back up, breathing heavily, his face red. Draco moved aside just enough to let him by.

And just as Wormtail hurried past, Draco's ears caught a distinct _crack_. He froze, one hand on the door, and Wormtail turned around, already halfway down the corridor.

"What was that?"

Draco returned his gaze coolly. "What was what?"

"I heard something."

A brief pause stretched between them. Draco ran his tongue over his dry lips, then jerked one shoulder in a shrug.

"Fine. I'll check."

Satisfied, Wormtail span around and dragged the Goblin around the corner and out of sight. Draco waited until he heard the drawing room doors open and close once more, catching another snippet of that heart-wrenching scream as they did. The sound drove him down the stairs into the darkness as if hell hounds were snapping at his heels, shutting the door tight behind him.

He heard the whispering voices as soon as he drew near the barred door. They didn't yet realise he was there. Somehow they had lit the cellar - the lantern in the corner was glowing. Hidden in the shadowed stairs, he could clearly see Potter, Weasley, Ollivander and Lovegood standing in a loose circle in the middle of the room. And there, in the centre of them, was a small, strangely familiar creature.

"Can you Apparate in and out of here?" Potter was asking urgently, kneeling down to be on the same level as the elf. "Can you take people with you?"

"Of course, Harry Potter!" the creature squeaked back, his large ears flapping earnestly. "Dobby would do anything for his friends."

 _Dobby_. That was his name. Draco peered at it, recognising its huge tennis ball eyes and long nose. He had always thought the elf was dead - his father had returned home some years previously without it, refusing to say where it had disappeared to. He had been somewhat saddened. The elf had become a kind of companion over the years. Although his father wouldn't allow him to play with it or talk to it in any great detail, it had been a chirpy, friendly voice in an otherwise cold, adult world. When he was much younger he had thought it was an imaginary friend. When he was older, he learned eventually not to argue when his father beat it. He had always wondered where it had gone.

Something had been decided while he was lost in thought, and there was a second loud _crack_ as the elf took Lovegood and Ollivander by the hands and disapparated. Draco held his breath, gazing up at the ceiling as if hoping to see through it into the dining room, but the distant shouts had not paused. In the cellar, Potter and Weasley were deliberating furiously in hushed, panicked voices.

"We'll make a noise of some kind, draw them down here, and when Wormtail comes in we'll catch him off guard and take his wand," Weasley was muttering.

"How?" Potter hissed back. "We can't fight him, not without wands. We should wait for Dobby and then Apparate upstairs, grab Hermione, and-"

"Without wands?" Weasley interrupted, in an imitation of Potter's earlier dismissal. "We can't wait, Harry, Hermione's up there right now, we have to do something-"

"Yes, something," Draco spoke up at last, the words stirring up the urgency of the situation in him once more. "But not just the first thing that pops into your heads, for God's sake."

The two of them flinched around as he stepped into the cellar. As he kicked the door shut behind him, Weasley let out a bullish roar and launched himself forwards, arms outstretched. Draco blocked him easily and pushed him back against the other wall with his wand, holding him against it as he struggled. Harry looked from one to the other, his hands balled into fists.

"Quick, Harry!" Ron yelled. "Get him, go!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Draco growled. "You can't seriously expect to overpower me like this."

"Malfoy," Harry began, his voice slightly distorted through his swollen lips, "You don't have to do this, you-"

"Save your breath, Potter," Draco said brusquely. "Preaching to the converted, I'm afraid."

He lowered his wand, releasing Weasley, who instantly staggered over to stand beside Potter. They faced him together, Weasley still panting from his exertion. Another high, long scream came from somewhere above them and Draco suppressed a shudder, trying to keep his mind on the plan.

"Look, there isn't time," he pushed. "If you're going to get out of here you need to do exactly what I say."

"Fuck off, Malfoy," Weasley spat. "Do you think we're that stupid?"

Draco felt in his back pocket, retrieved their two wands, and tossed them across the cellar. Harry caught them, fumbling in surprise. His face, which was slowly returning to normal as the jinx wore off, revealed an expression of utter shock. Weasley recovered quicker - he lifted his wand and promptly sent a stunning jinx in Draco's direction.

"There isn't time for this!" Draco snapped, waving the spell aside with a jerk of his wand. "When is your elf coming back? We'll need him too."

"You must be fucking joking."

Draco heaved a sigh of frustration, biting back a sharp retort. He would have been better off going it alone. There was no way he was going to convince them. He looked at Potter, who had grown very quiet, and did his best to hold the other boy's gaze.

"Look," he said quietly, "Even if I _was_ trying to trick you, I'm the only way you're getting out of this cell. You have your wands. And if you wait any longer- " He broke off sharply as his voice shook, betraying him. He took a deep breath before continuing. "It'll be too late."

Potter stared back at him, his mouth a firm line. Weasley seemed to realise his friend was wavering.

"Harry, you can't seriously-"

"What choice have we got?" Potter retorted sharply. "We have to get up there."

"But-"

"If you think Bellatrix won't kill her, think again," Draco said coldly. "I should know."

There was a short pause. Potter glanced at Weasley one last time.

"What do you suggest?" he said, as if he was having difficulty getting the words out.

Draco let out a breath he hadn't known he had been holding. Their options were slim, but that only made it easier for him to decide quickly.

"We go up there. You wait outside the doors. When you hear me attack, get inside and get to Herm-Granger. I'll keep them busy until your elf gets you out."

He cursed silently at his slip up, but they didn't seem to have noticed. Potter was frowning at him.

"And then what? What're you going to do?"

Draco shook his head. "Just leave that to me... I'll say you _Imperio'd_ me or something. Doesn't matter now."

Potter opened his mouth, but a sharp _crack_ interrupted him and Dobby the elf appeared once more, caught between them. His eyes grew impossibly wider as he took in their new guest.

"Young Master Malfoy!" he cried shrilly.

Despite himself, Draco couldn't help but let a small smile ghost over his face. "Good timing, Dobby."

"Dobby has returned - as a free elf!" the elf professed, stabbing a thumb at its chest.

"Congratulations," Draco said, and it didn't come out nearly as sarcastic as he thought it would.

"Malfoy," Potter said. "They won't believe–"

Draco held up a hand, putting a finger to his lips. The others fell quiet and the voices above them became clearer in the silence.

"… was that? Did you hear that? What was that noise in the cellar?"

"Draco? Draco!" A pause. "Where is he… Wormtail! Go and look!"

He heard the distant bang of the dining room doors and instantly retreated into a dark corner, his wand drawn. Potter and Weasley were already hiding their wands in their back pockets, backing up a little – Weasley pulled something out of his jacket and clicked it, and the light of the lantern disappeared. Dobby scurried away into the dimness, out of sight. They were plunged into pitch black just before the door at the top of the stairs flew open. Wormtail's rapid footsteps on the stone stairs reached his ears.

"Stand back!" he ordered loudly, fumbling with the barred door. "Stand away from the door!"

Potter and Weasley moved further back, both slowly raising their hands. Draco remained motionless as Wormtail edged into the room, his wand pointed at his prisoners.

"What's all this noise? What's happening?"

"Nothing," Potter said, too quickly.

"Nothing?" Wormtail repeated, sneering. "What are you hiding? Where are the others?"

He moved forwards, closing in on them, and Draco silently followed. He was acting on autopilot, not giving himself time to think about what he was doing. He trained his wand on Wormtail's head and, without uttering a word, sent a stunning jinx blasting at him. Wormtail was lifted off his feet and thrown into the far wall with a rush of red light. Before he could even land Draco had hit him with a second spell, _Petrificus Totalus,_ immobilizing him in the corner. He lowered his wand, aware of Weasley and Potter's shocked, wide-eyed stare.

"We should go," he said, turning his back on them. "We've spent too long down here already."

"Malfoy!"

He turned, one foot on the cellar steps. Weasley was looking at him as if he had just sprouted a second head, his hands still balled into fists at his sides. He looked at Potter, as if searching for answers, before his gaze fixed on Draco once more.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Draco stared back at him, his mouth set in a hard line. "What does it look like? I'm surviving, Weasel."

He turned away and started up the stairs. And, after a short hesitation, he heard them following. He held the door for them as they emerged into the corridor beyond, and then slipped in front of them again to move around the corner. The entrance hall stretched before them, empty and silent, but Draco's nerves were screaming. He felt as if he were trying to walk along a tightrope strung from a terrible height. He walked as quietly as possible, leading them back to the drawing room doors, and then stopped. A glance over his shoulder told him that they were following, still looking slightly mistrustful, their wands drawn.

"So," he said, speaking barely above a whisper, "I'll go in first. And when you hear me attack, don't hesitate. Get in, get to her, and get out."

"And you?" Potter murmured back.

Draco felt his face twist in a humourless smirk. "Just get out, Potter, don't go playing the hero. It won't help anyone."

He shoved open the door without giving them time to answer, and left it ajar as he strode into the dining room. It was like moving underwater – instantly his blood began to roar in his ears and he felt his throat close. The scene drove in to meet him. His mother and father were lingering near the fireplace, Greyback lurking nearby, dismissed from the main action – the Goblin was crouched near the table, clinging to the sword, - Bellatrix bearing down on it. And where was Hermione – there, lying still on the ground, curled in on herself, her bushy hair fanning over the floor.

"You're sure?" Bellatrix was hissing, thrusting her wand dangerously at the Goblin. "You're _absolutely_ sure?"

"Yes," the Goblin mumbled, twisting its face away. "It's a fake."

Bellatrix span away from it, rising to her feet, and the Goblin's shoulders sagged with relief. She strode across the hall, stopping again beside Hermione, her wand twirling between her fingers. Her eyebrow arched slowly upwards in a way that made Draco's skin crawl. He could see her anger simmering just beneath the surface, about to erupt.

"I don't know if I believe you, Goblin," she growled softly. "Or you, you ugly little creature…"

She nudged Hermione with her toe, and Draco's ears caught a ragged sob. Her hair was covering her face – he couldn't see her – but he could see terror and pain in every stiff line of her body. As he moved closer to them Bellatrix looked up.

"Draco, where have you been? What was all that commotion?"

He tried to keep his face expressionless – he didn't trust himself to try to pass off being comfortable with the situation any longer. Hermione curled into a tighter ball at the sound of his voice and his stomach wrenched. She was afraid of him.

"Wormtail's dealing with it."

"Ah. Well, in that case – come over here, Draco."

Her lips were curving into a sadistic smirk. He heard his mother's trembling voice suddenly speak up from across the room.

"Bella, _no._ Draco, don't, come here."

"The boy has something to prove to the Dark Lord, Cissy!" Bellatrix snapped viciously. "Draco, _here."_

Draco crossed the last couple of meters between them and stopped beside his Aunt. She squeezed his shoulder encouragingly, leaning close to hiss into his face. Hermione's body shook violently on the ground before them. There was a dark bloodstain on her sleeve. Her hand was closed into a hard fist on the marble floor. She didn't look up, but he could tell that she knew he was there. She kept herself wrapped up, cringing against the marble floor as if hoping to fall through it.

"Why don't you try, Draco," Bellatrix was whispering. "Get her to tell you about the sword, and the Dark Lord will reward you…"

He removed his wand from his blazer, levelled it carefully at Hermione. He could hear her crying quietly, every whimper tearing at him like a knife in his gut. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the doors to the hall twitch slightly, felt his heart lurch in his chest. God, they really had no plan in place here at all. He was just going to have to hope that his Aunt didn't see the attack coming.

"Come on, Draco!" Bellatrix snapped, making him flinch.

He gripped his wand tighter, took a slow, deep breath – and then jerked his arm upwards. Red light twisted from his wand and hit his Aunt in the stomach. She fell backwards with a gasp of shock, and he heard the doors to the hall crash open. He was already moving, knowing that she would not stay down for long – he leaned down to grab Hermione by the shoulder of her coat, dragging her upwards. She was a dead weight in his grip, clutching weakly at his arm, and her hair finally fell backwards from her face. Her wide, tear-glazed brown eyes fixed on him, and he felt the breath leave his lungs. A stark graze on her cheek drew his gaze, then a cut on her lower lip… her lips parted.

"Draco…"

She barely whispered his name, but she might as well have screamed it. It shook through him, and he pulled her up to her feet, wrapped an arm around her waist. He could hear spells being fired behind him, his father's voice, the low roar of Fenrir Greyback – apparently Harry and Ron hadn't got far.

"Hermione, you have to get up," he whispered, trying not to move his lips too much.

She was trying – he could feel it in her shaking body – but her legs would not take her weight. He lifted his head just in time to see his Aunt rising to her feet across the room, and fiery terror rushed through him. He had no more time. He span about, depositing Hermione as carefully as he could on the ground behind him, and then turned and threw a defensive shield up before them a millisecond before blasting curses hit them. He could feel Hermione's trembling weight against his leg, her hand reaching for the hem of his jacket – it forced him to hold the force field as long as he could. His Aunt was rushing towards them, her face distorted with rage, sending curse after curse at him – he didn't have time to even consider breaking the defence and fighting back. But he couldn't hold it much longer, his arm shaking under the strain. With a last burst of effort he pushed forwards and his shield blasted outwards – she destroyed it with a single flick of her wand, but it gave him enough time to fight back.

He sent three sharp curses at her head, forcing her to stop to block them, managing to push her a few steps away from Hermione. She had trained him herself, after all. But Bellatrix was one of the strongest witches he had ever seen, and he knew he wasn't going to be able to hold her off. He chanced a quick glance over his shoulder – Weasley and Potter were duelling with Greyback and his father, and not faring particularly well. His gaze continued past them and his eyes met his mother's. She was standing beside the fireplace, her wand drawn but not engaging with the fight, her eyes riveted on him. Her expression was fiercely emotional, filled with a strange mixture of disbelief and realisation. He could only afford to look at her for a moment, but he did his best to pour what apology he could into his gaze.

 _"Avada Kedavra!"_

He ducked just in time to miss the curse his Aunt had just sent at his head, felt it rush past his ear. Despite the fray, he couldn't help but freeze in shock. She had actually tried to kill him. Steeling himself, he threw up a wall of fire between them and grabbed Hermione's hand, began to pull her backwards with him. He had managed to close some of the distance between he and his unexpected allies by the time Bellatrix got through it and came at him again – he tried to lift another shield but she cut through it at once and made a slashing motion with her wand. He recognised it and flinched backwards, but not quite fast enough – he felt a sharp sting on his cheek, felt the heat of blood. It was enough to distract him and the next moment a heavy blow hit him head on and threw him sideways into the dining room table. He was on his feet again in moments, but yet again she was faster – this time her spell lifted him into the air and hurled him into the bookcase across the room. The ground slammed into him and knocked the air out of him – agony flared up in his side and books rained down around him.

"Bella! _Bella!"_

"Shut up, Cissy!"

He scrambled unsteadily up onto his hands and knees, still gasping in a helpless attempt to draw breath. Bellatrix had turned away and was striding towards Hermione – he lurched up to his feet and sent a barrage of hexes at the back of her head. She span around before they could hit, as always, her eyes burning with fury as she sent them back at him.

" _What the hell are you doing, Draco?"_ she screamed at him as he dodged them.

He jabbed his wand and the books on the floor behind him lifted into the air and flew at her in a frenzy, surrounding her. Draco made a run for it, his side searing with every step, and made it to Hermione. She lifted her head as he reached her, her face still wet with tears.

"Draco!"

He looked up – his father was there, barely three steps from him, staring at him in horror. He glanced past him to see Harry and Ron forcing Greyback out of the doors and into the hall. He wished they would bloody hurry up. There was no way they would get away with this for much longer. He caught a flurry of movement to his left and span around to deflect the curse coming at him, fired by his Aunt.

"Draco, stop!" his father hissed behind him. "What _is_ this?"

Everything he threw at his Aunt failed miserably – he was hardly even able to attack. He seized Hermione's hand again and began to back away, whipping up the best shield he could. He glanced over again – Ron was pinning the doors shut with a feeble spell. Draco made it halfway to them before his shield began to falter again – the curse that broke it sent a tremor of hot pain up his arm and he doubled over, dragging Hermione behind him once more. Her hand closed tightly over his wrist and he managed to catch her gaze for a moment. Fierce terror burned in her brown eyes, desperate panic directed straight at him pleading with him – she didn't speak, but her tight grip on his arm and her face spoke volumes.

"Draco, what the hell are you–"

"What does it matter, Lucius, _stop him!_ " Bellatrix snarled, her voice high with fury.

He straightened up, deflected a hex sent at him, threw a pathetic one back which she blocked easily. They were both close to him now, her on one side and his father on the other. Jesus, could Potter and Weasely not have taken one of them off his hands? He held up his wand, his gaze flicking from one to the other.

"Draco, don't–"

 _"Stupefy."_

He cast it sloppily on purpose, and his father blocked the spell easily. Shock rushed across his face and for a moment it was almost funny.

 _"Crucio!"_

His nerves screamed with fire and he crumbled to his knees – it was thankfully brief, but left him trembling and gasping as it lifted. He could hear raised voices, feel Hermione's tight grip on his arm. Her clutching hands communicated how terrified she was, and he discreetly felt for her, squeezed her knee briefly. His side burned as he tried to rise, but he forced himself upwards until his shaking legs worked. His father had been struggling with his Aunt, and she was only just throwing him off.

"What are you doing!?"

"Do _not_ curse my son!"

"He's a dirty fucking blood traitor, Lucius!"

He lifted his wand. _"Petri–"_

 _"Levicorpos!"_

It felt as if a hook had just sunk into his collar – he flew backwards and hit the wall across the room, felt his head slam against the stone with a deafening _crack_. Stars exploded before his gaze and darkness closed over his head. When he came back to himself he was lying face-down on the marble floor, and he had no idea how much time had passed. He heaved himself up onto his hands and knees as if crawling through mud, his ribs protesting violently, the world spinning. He felt the familiar shape of his wand still held loosely between his fingers and closed his grip over it, trying to ground himself. Blinking hard, he managed to bring the room into focus – Potter and Weasley had finally managed to grab Hermione and had retreated a few steps, wands drawn, the Goblin hovering beside them. Weasley's arms were wrapped around her protectively – possessively – and Draco couldn't help but feel a sharp stab of jealousy. He tried to concentrate on what his Aunt was saying.

"What are you going to do now _Potter_?" she was jeering loudly. "I knew it was you, I knew as soon as I saw that filthy mudblood! Are you really going to try to fight us?"

Potter glanced around furtively. It was perfectly evident that he had no idea what his next move was, and Bellatrix was finally smirking again, enjoying being back in control of the situation. She advanced closer, Lucius hovering a step behind her, and the Golden Trio inched away.

"You should make yourself comfortable," she sneered. "After all, the Dark Lord will be here very, very soon…"

Lucius pulled his sleeve back and lifted his hand. Draco's heart leapt with sheer terror. He reached for the wall and used it to drag himself to his feet, his head still whirling treacherously. But it seemed as if Potter's eternal guardian angel had re-appeared, as it always did – Dobby materialized out of thin air and landed amongst them, his huge ears flapping with the speed of his arrival. The surprise on his father's face was once again almost comical, and his Aunt's eyes grew round with shock and fury.

"You!"

She lifted her wand but the Elf snapped its fingers and sent it spinning into the air. Draco didn't realise it was possible for Bellatrix to look more angry than she already did, but somehow her face grew even more rigid and ferocious.

"How dare you take a witch's wand!" she screamed. "How dare you!"

Draco lifted his wand, hoping to take advantage of the distraction, but Potter's gaze jerked over to him at once. To his surprise, he found a wand pointed at himself. The confusion made him hesitate, and before he knew it his wand was pulling free of his hand.

 _"Expelliarmus!"_

It flew across the room and landed in Potter's waiting hand. Every head turned and Draco found himself suddenly under the scrutiny of several pairs of eyes. He had no idea what to do, could not even keep track of whose side he was supposed to be pretending to be on. He stood there, blinking dumbly, still leaning heavily on the wall. He found Hermione's brown eyes among the others and felt a strange grief burn unexpectedly in his chest. Ron's arms were still around her – if anything he had moved to almost mask her from Draco's sight. But she was looking at him, and her tearful face was twisting and distraught, and he knew what she was trying to ask.

 _Come with us._

He didn't need to shake his head. She already knew what he would reply. He simply stood there, and watched her distress rush over her like a wave.

"Dobby is a free elf!" Dobby cried, finally relieving him of the attention of the others. "And Dobby has come to save Harry Potter and his friends!"

Bellatrix's face hardened. Her hand went to her belt, and Draco wished he had the ability to warn them. The blow to his head had played havoc with his reflexes – even trying to speak resulted in little more than a mumbling noise in the back of his throat. But Dobby was already seizing hold of the others as the knife left Bellatrix's hand, and Draco watched as they all vanished into thin air, leaving nothing but complete and utter silence in their wake. It was as if they had never even been there.

They stood frozen – his mother still beside the fireplace, his father with his hand poised to press his Mark, his Aunt still staring at the spot their prisoners had disappeared. Their failure was absolute, and Draco could not remember feeling more relieved in his whole life. Somehow, she had escaped. She would be safe, at least for now. He felt the back of his head, grimaced as his fingers touched wet blood matted in his hair. Now that the adrenaline was trickling out of him, it was beginning to hurt rather a lot.

"Draco?"

He glanced up. His father was looking at him with wary hope. He wasn't allowed the soft touch for long – his Aunt's head snapped upwards like a snake and she strode towards him, stretching out her hand. Her wand flew to her grip and she held it before her, livid with rage.

"What was that?" she demanded, her voice dangerously low. "Explain yourself. Immediately."

"What?" He didn't even need to try to act that confused; he was sluggish enough as it was. "How did… How did they even get out?"

Red sparks flew from the end of Bellatrix's wand, but the next moment his father was there, pushing her arm down in a sudden, unexpected show of authority.

"What do you remember?" he said.

"We were here… I heard a noise, I went downstairs… Didn't I?" he looked away, pretending to try to think.

He saw his Aunt's wand move out of the corner of his eye, and was only just able to fortify his swirling brain as best he could before she delved into it. He was grateful for the concussion; the distorted thoughts and memories made it harder for her to rifle through them properly. She was not particularly gentle, and he could feel his legs beginning to shake. He nudged a couple of images towards her, doing his best to make it seem coincidental that they appeared – watching them plan from the shadows of the dungeon steps, Weasley attacking him as he entered, Wormtail immobilised on the floor…

 _"Quick, Harry! Get him, go!"_

He offered a final burst of white light to top it off, and her presence withdrew. The sudden release coupled with his spinning head proved a bad mixture and he felt his legs give out beneath him. And yet, as if they had entered some strange, alternate reality, his father was suddenly there to catch him and shoulder his weight. Draco blinked dazedly as the world came back into sight around him, wondering if he had passed into some kind of dream world in the back of his head. But no – Bellatrix was still there. She fixed him with a final venomous glare before turning on her heel and striding away.

"Well?" his father demanded.

"Imperius curse," Bellatrix muttered icily. "Stupid boy. They must have used Wormtail's wand."

He felt a sigh of relief rush through his father's body and risked a glance across the room. His mother was watching him in silence, and he suddenly felt horribly exposed. She was looking at him with a grave sort of knowing etched into her face, and he didn't dare hold her gaze for too long. She never had been easy to fool.

"Are you going to tell him?"

His father's voice offered him an excuse to fix his attention on Bellatrix again. She stood there in the centre of the dining room, the tip of her wand glowing dangerously by her side, her wild hair almost trembling around her. Draco kept tactfully quiet – he didn't dare provoke her temper now. She spoke without turning to look at them.

"It would be very foolish not to."

His mother finally moved, stowing her wand away as she crossed the room. She put an arm around Draco's waist, pulling him firmly out of Lucius' grip. He let himself be passed from one to the other.

"That son of yours is not only a failure," Bellatrix snapped suddenly. "He's now a liability too, Cissy. The Dark Lord–"

"I doubt the Dark Lord will blame Draco, _Bella_ ," his mother said quietly.

She Disapparated before Bellatrix could respond, and Draco was pulled away with her. His room materialised around him and he sat down on his waiting bed at once, almost giddy with the relief of having escaped the dining room. He could not quite believe that it had all happened. Part of him wondered whether he had fallen down the stairs and imagined the whole thing. It had been such a farce, such an unbelievable, impossible plan. Perhaps the fact that it had been so ridiculous was the only reason they had managed to pull it off. His mother had disappeared into his bathroom and now reappeared armed with a potion. She held it out to him and he took it obediently for once, still not quite able to look her in the eye.

"Are you hurt?"

He took stock. "Uh… Head. And ribs, I think."

"I'll find someone."

"It's fine, I'll sort it."

She stood in front of him for a few moments. He pretended to be focused on the potion, pretended not to realise that she was staring at him. Finally, just when he thought he was going to have to say something, she turned away and crossed the room to the door.

"Be careful, Draco," she said quietly as she opened it. "The Dark Lord doesn't need any more reasons to punish us."

And she disappeared out into the corridor, her final word reminding him once and for all that any kind of miraculous escape was impossible for him. 'Us'. He was responsible for them, too. He closed his eyes, and he truly didn't know if he felt elated or desolate.

 **~O~**

The sound of the sea beat against the window panes and the distant peals of crying seagulls flickered on the wind. She sat curled on the bed, wrapped up into as tight a ball as she could manage, several large blankets heaped around her, and yet she still couldn't stop shivering. The seagulls' cries reminded her of screams, and she didn't want to think about that. Every time they squawked she felt like the shadows in the corners of the room shuddered, felt like she might be whisked away back to that unforgiving marble floor and cavernous dining room. She closed a hand over her forearm, felt the sharp, throbbing pain there.

The door opened suddenly and she flinched violently, reflexively. Ron froze halfway into the room, as if approaching a wild animal, and lifted the cup of tea he was carrying in front of him like a talisman.

"Sorry," he whispered. "You ok?"

She didn't know what to say, so she just nodded and cradled her maimed forearm closer against her stomach. She had already tried every charm she knew, and nothing would work. Deep down, she knew the scars would be there forever. The reminder of it brought tears to her eyes again as Ron set the mug down on the bedside cabinet.

"Thought you might want something warm," he said, and she could hear him trying so hard to sound light-hearted. "There's a bit of Salvocia in it, too, which should help…"

His voice trailed off. He wrung his hands before him for a moment, and then decisively plopped down onto the edge of the bed.

"It's ok, Hermione, you're safe now."

She fixed her eyes on the quilt, unable to stop hot tears from creeping down her cheeks. She couldn't bear it. When they had landed on the beach he had thrown his arms around her, and he had held her so tightly that she felt like she couldn't breathe. He had remained stuck to her until Fleur managed to disentangle her from his grip and accompany her upstairs, apparently picking up on her discomfort. She couldn't stand being close to him, and the guilt was overwhelming. She knew he was trying to help, she knew he was trying to be her knight in shining armor, but her skin crawled whenever anybody touched her. He made a movement suddenly, as if about to scoot forwards, reaching out his arm, and she flinched again before she could stop herself. His face wrinkled with hurt as she drew into herself, knees drawn tight to her chest, her arms crossed over her chest, gripping her own shoulders tightly.

"Sorry," she managed, her voice still hoarse. "Sorry, I just… Thanks."

He shrugged, trying to shake the awkwardness off. "S'fine, I just… I thought maybe you might want me to stay here with you tonight. Make sure you're safe."

His words beat against her like clubs, and it took all she had to keep her mouth shut. She didn't know how his perception of their relationship could be so warped in comparison to hers. They had never really talked about what was happening between them, although there had been a sort of closeness over the last year or so. She supposed that he must have assumed that closeness was still growing, even though she had barely looked him in the eye since he had left them in the woods. He was constantly trying, constantly attempting to share a smile or put his arm around her. But she had never felt more alienated from him, never felt more like a stranger when he smiled eagerly and reached for her hand.

When she closed her eyes, she could still see those silvery eyes staring into hers. That horrible, agonizing moment before Dobby had whisked them away, she had stared into those eyes and begged silently for him to come with them. But of course he didn't. She could see him so clearly in her mind, leaning heavily against the marble wall he had just been thrown against, blood trickling from his nose and his temple. She could see the almost imperceptible shake of his head, the resignation in his gaze.

What she wouldn't give to have him stretched out on the bed beside her now, his fingertips drawing feather-light circles on her shoulder. What she wouldn't give to travel back in time and be in her Prefect room in Hogwarts, her hands free to know every inch of his body, her lips melded to his. And yet that memory crashed against the sight of him turning away from her in Malfoy Manor, his back straight, his eyes icy.

 _"Don't speak to me, Mudblood."_

She had to believe that he hadn't meant it, that he had always planned to come back for her, but she felt as if her mind had been torn apart. She didn't know what was real anymore. He had walked out of that hall as if he hadn't a care in the world. And then he had suddenly been back. Harry and Ron seemed to have taken the incident as a moment of guilt, a second of mercy, rather than a sign of Draco changing sides. She supposed she must view it in the same way. A hesitation.

She didn't even know if he was alright. If he had been punished for helping them, if they had believed his story. She thought of the white scars on his neck and shoulder and almost began crying again, grief tearing through her in swells.

Ron's weight shifted on the bed beside her and she opened her eyes, realizing with a jolt that she had completely forgotten he was there. He was watching her, his brow furrowed worriedly.

"Hermione?"

"I just need some sleep," she heard herself whisper. "I just… I just want to be alone for a bit."

He looked affronted, but still he nodded and stood up. His eyes seemed to harden slightly as he glanced over her.

"Feel better soon," he muttered, and made his way out into the corridor.

She waited until his footsteps had died away before burrowing down into her nest of blankets and pulling the quilt over her head. In the thick, warm darkness beneath them she let herself heave great, silent sobs and held herself. Her mind tormented her with the memory of his bare arm slung over her in sleep, of his hands resting on either side of her face, of the rush of wind in her face as he twisted around on his broomstick and pressed a fleeting kiss against her lips. She took advantage of the silence and the solitude, and she cried.

 **Reviews, as always are welcome. Less of the present time in this one, but there was a lot to get through and I thought it would take away from it to be dipping back into Grimmauld Place all the time.**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

 **Thanks for the reviews :) Hopefully this chapter goes down ok.  
**

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 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

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Hermione had been staring into her bowl of cereal for the past ten minutes without eating a thing. The more she poked at it with her spoon, the more the clumps of fruit and oats clumped together and became congealed mush. Her appetite was well and truly gone, and she could think of nothing less appealing, but she was supposed to being going to the hearing Hestia had invited her to that day and she wanted to be prepared. Truthfully, her mind couldn't be further from it. She had tried to read up on the case the night before, knowing that Hestia was offering her valuable work experience in the world of magical law, but the words had blurred and danced on the page before her eyes. She couldn't focus. The more she thought about justice, about lawyers, about putting people on trial, the more her mind wandered back to the whole mess she had found herself in the middle of.

 _"You've known him since you were eleven,"_ Hestia had said to her that day in the park. _"Did you ever feel he was dangerous?"_

It was hard to ignore the fact that Hestia was currently evaluating Draco's character and the likelihood of his loyalties with the Death Eaters, and yet apparently knew next to nothing about him. For whatever reason, it was obvious that he had not told her about their history, about everything he had done during the war. Hestia seemed convinced that he was hiding something – what she couldn't know was that the 'something' could be far less to do with Voldemort, and far more to do with the fact that he was now living with his ex-secret-girlfriend. And yet, he was being treated as if he was somehow involved in the plans of the Death Eaters, that he was some kind of sleeper agent waiting for a signal.

For some reason, she couldn't stop thinking about that day at Malfoy Manor. Because even if he _had_ been a Death Eater, even if he had done terrible things, he had still saved her. He had put himself between her and Bellatrix when she had been convinced that their whole campaign had been for nothing. She couldn't accept that he had changed so completely since that day that he would be prepared to throw her to the sharks now. That had been their last real encounter before they lost contact, before the war came to its climax. She wondered why he hadn't told Hestia of it – he couldn't have, or she would have come to question Harry, Ron and herself. But then, she could only guess that his reasons were the same as her own – because then everyone would begin to uncover everything they had hidden for the past four years.

 _Would that be so bad?_

If he continued to act as he was now, yes. She glanced up from her cereal at Harry, who was standing at the kitchen sink, scrubbing at a layer of grime on a frying pan. His sleeves were rolled up and his eyes squinted from behind his glasses. She imagined sitting him down and explaining to him that she had spent most of her final years at Hogwarts sneaking into Malfoy's room, and suppressed a wave of despair. How could he ever trust her again after discovering she had lied for so long? But she wanted more than anything to confide in someone, to ask for advice… And she couldn't help but feel that Hestia should know the truth of Draco's actions during the war, should know how much he had done to help them. If it ever came to a trial, the information would have to come out anyway. Maybe if she and Harry could explain together, it wouldn't be so bad.

 _But they would ask Draco why he did it. And then…_

She threw down her spoon and screwed her thumbs into her eye sockets, trying to drive out the thoughts circling in her head like keening seagulls. She was getting absolutely nowhere, and her frustration was unbearable.

"You ok, Hermione?"

She lowered her hands to find Ginny looking at her quizzically, jam dripping steadily from the piece of toast that was halfway to her mouth. Hermione forced herself to smile, nodded.

"Yeah, yeah. Just… Just the trial."

"Oh, yeah," Ginny nodded, speaking through her mouthful of toast. "You're going with Hestia today, right?"

"I don't know if she'll be there herself."

"Yeah, I guess she's pretty busy, huh?"

Hermione sighed, and then stood up and tossed the congealed cereal away, wrinkling her nose in distaste. She could think of nothing less enticing than a long day at the Ministry. Although, perhaps it would be good to get out of the house. She was certainly having no luck trying to talk things out with Draco, and having him there meant that she was constantly on edge. Of what, she wasn't sure. But the way he had looked at her in the kitchen the other day… She was certain that something was going on. His cold, sneering tone; the way he tried to leave as soon as she questioned him; his constantly shifting gaze; not to mention how tired and frustrated he had looked. All classic symptoms that something was preying on him. Part of her couldn't help but wonder if Hestia was right, if he really was somehow plotting something with the Death Eaters… A thought which filled her with a grotesque cocktail of crushing guilt and dread.

"What's the case? Hermione?"

"Oh!" she turned around, still clutching her bowl. "Nothing, nothing – just someone who might be trading with the black magic market."

"Ew – zombie heads and dead mermaid hair, that kind of thing?" George said, wincing. "Weird."

"Yeah."

"That's terrible," Harry said, finally setting the frying pan aside to dry and wiping his hands on his jeans. "Is that a big problem?"

"It got bad while Voldemort was around, but they're getting on top of it again now," Hannah said, concentrating on fixing a smear of eyeliner on her cheek.

"Sounds interesting, Hermione."

She barely even heard George speak – she was watching Harry. Having retrieved a small notepad from his back pocket and flicked through it, he tucked his notes away and made for the kitchen door. She snatched for his arm as he went and he paused, glancing over his shoulder. The others were beginning to discuss the black magic market, offering her a few precious seconds to talk to him. She wet her lips.

"Harry – what are you doing today?"

"The usual," he said, checking his watch. "Meeting with the Order first thing. Why?"

"Can we go for a coffee? This afternoon, maybe at four or five?"

"Ah…"

He hesitated, and her heart sank. She knew he was busy, and that she shouldn't have expected him to be available, but she couldn't help but be disappointed. She wanted so much to be able to speak to someone about everything in her head, and she didn't feel like Ginny would be able to help. Harry had been in the Manor too, after all. He already had some idea of what had happened, even if he didn't know the whole story. He must have seen her face fall, as he suddenly nodded and reached out to squeeze her shoulder encouragingly.

"Sure," he said. "Corner Coffee House ok?"

She nodded, finally able to relax a little, and let him go. Relief spread though her like warmth, and she rinsed out her bowl in the sink. She wasn't sure what she would tell him, but Harry was good at talking through things. She was sure to come away with a clearer head than when she started. She pushed her hair back, offered the others a nod.

"I'd better go, I don't want to be late."

"Enjoy the dead mermaid hair," Ginny said with a spray of crumbs. Neville, who was sitting beside her, winced and brushed at his jumper.

She managed a laugh and headed up the stairs. She had almost made it to the second floor when a voice echoed up the stairwell after her, and she froze with one hand on the banister.

"Hermione, wait!"

She knew who it was before she turned around, but she looked anyway. Ron was taking the stairs two at a time to catch up with her, and she felt her heart plunge into her stomach. His eyes were bright and hopeful, and his face was dangerously optimistic – god, she knew that look. It was the same look he'd had when he was telling them all about his exploits with Lavender Brown. She tried to smile as he reached her, tried to keep her tone nonchalant.

"You ok?"

"Yeah, yeah," he smiled widely at her. "You have a minute?"

 _Oh, no._

"Actually, I'm about to leave for this trial, I have to get my things…"

"Come _on,_ Hermione, I've been trying to track you down for ages," he said, taking her arm.

She felt her body stiffen instantly – she hated it when he tried to pull her somewhere – but let him lead her on up the stairs and into the living room. He held the door for her, and she reluctantly made her way inside. He closed it behind them, and her apprehension grew. If what he wanted to say needed to be said in private, it was most definitely going to be something she did not want to hear. She pushed her hands into her pockets as she turned to face him, hovering near the sofa.

"Ron, I really do need to go, I'll be late…"

"You're always half an hour early for everything," Ron said, waving her words away like flies. "I wanted to talk to you."

His voice was soft. He had that telltale hesitation in his tone which always preceded a tender proclamation. She swore silently, mentally kicking herself for not thinking up a better excuse. Instead she fumbled for an adequate response.

"Talk?"

"I've barely seen you the past few weeks, and we're supposed to be living in the same house." His tone was light, but she could see the hurt flickering behind his eyes. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if physically preparing himself for the conversation. "I know we've both got a lot going on, but… but I was kind of hoping to see more of you now that the war is out of the way."

"Ron, I just… I've just been really busy."

"Too busy to sit next to me on the sofa?"

She almost winced. He was right – she had made so much effort not to go near him, hoping that if she just stayed away for as long as possible they would both quietly move on. But it was becoming more and more evident that he had not, that he still expected something of her. She wanted to say something that would simply and easily change the mood, but there was nothing she could come up with. She never had been good at this kind of thing. He stepped forwards, and she had to steel herself to remain where she was. He reached for her hand. She let him take it, a compromise to excuse the fact that she still couldn't bear to look him in the eye.

"Listen," he said earnestly. "I know that a lot happened in the war, and it's been tough on us all. When Fred… Well, I needed time to get back to normal. But it's all over now, and it's time we took our lives back and got on with them. We should shake all of this off and… And be together."

She stood there in silence, a pillar of stone. She knew that he wouldn't like her response. But she couldn't lie to him, and he was forcing her to say it openly. She tried to think of the best way to put it, but before she could get up the courage to speak he suddenly released her. She looked up quickly to find him smiling at her, almost knowingly.

"Anyway," he said, as if concluding a presentation, "Take as long as you want. But we should be planning on picking up where we left off, don't you think?"

She felt her mouth twist into a polite smile. She knew it was cowardly, but perhaps if she could just remain distant, if she could drop a few more hints, he might be able to get the message without her having to hurt his feelings. His hand ghosted over her shoulder, his finger grazed her cheek. Then he turned and ducked out into the corridor again, offering her one final look over his shoulder before disappearing. She let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding, scrubbing a hand across her forehead wearily. She hated that it all had to happen now, that everything all had to come to a head at once. She knew she would have to talk to Ron – it was just that once they had that conversation, everything would be changed forever. She knew him well enough to bet that he wouldn't take the rejection well. Especially when the others just seemed to expect them to end up together.

It was beginning to look like she was destined to lose all her closest friends, one way or another.

She tried to shake the conversation off, telling herself that she would deal with it later. She pushed her way out of the living room and carried on up the stairs, grateful that she would at least be able to be out of the house for the whole day.

 **~O~**

As Draco had expected, a few hours after his last meeting with Hestia his wound had exploded with pain and the attack had hit him. It had been a particularly bad one for some reason – he had regained consciousness on the floor of his room, curled into a tight ball, his lip bleeding from where his teeth had clamped down. He had tried to sleep, but that night sleep had proved impossible. His wound burned every now and again and the periphery of his vision was filled with sudden movements which turned out to be dreams. Eventually, tired of flinching at shadows, he had padded downstairs to the living room and dropped into the chair by the window with a small pile of books, hoping to distract himself. The early hours of the morning found him rifling wearily through books on advanced transfiguration, the history of medical magic and a book on an obscure argument between Russia and China over the possession of a particularly rare species of unicorn.

He only realized he had been drifting off when he flinched awake. Immediately afterwards he understood what had woken him – the door to the living room opening. The light streaming through the window was morning sunlight, explaining gently that he had fallen asleep in the chair and slept until now. And two voices were speaking, instantly familiar and instantly unwelcome. Too late to run, he drew back into the chair, pulled his legs up against himself, and ducked his head. He could only hope that they couldn't see him, thanks to the chair being large and winged, and facing the window, and that they would decide to leave soon. But, just his luck, they seemed to be settling down to talk.

And he heard it all.

Hidden there behind the chair, he felt his body turn slowly to stone around him, observed his gaze drifting out of focus, let their hushed words wash over him like a wave. He felt like he was being forced underwater, miles and miles down, until the pressure made his blood boil and his lungs explode. He heard the floorboards creak as her weight shifted, and for one horrible moment thought that she was coming over. There could only be one thing worse than this feeling, and that would be her discovering him there in the corner, his eyes prickling with heat and his heart stammering in his chest. But, thankfully, her footsteps led away across the room, and the door whispered a creak as she vanished into the corridor.

The silence that ruled now that they were both gone was deafening, and he pressed both hands over his face, a tremulous sigh rattling through his chest. Her silence was all the confirmation he needed. The Weasel had won her. Why would she turn him down? He was beginning a career as an Auror, still revelling in the heroism of his actions in the war, his record squeaky clean. There were no tattooed snakes writhing on his skin and no demons lurking in his head. They would probably get married one day beneath an eggshell blue sky, surrounded by family and friends – they would spend Christmas together at his parents house, joined by Potter and Ginny. Their children would play together by the fireside. Their story was already written out for them. The peaceful beauty of the image drew out a kind of raw, grieving anger he hadn't felt in months. He could feel his jaw clenching reflexively, his breathing quickening as if he were about to fight…

Crookshanks' head butted against his knee and punctured the storm brewing in his soul. He had a vague memory of the cat showing up the night before around 4.00am, and it had apparently stuck around. He let his hands loosen and his fingers trailed through the thick, matted fur rubbing against his leg. He closed his eyes and listened to the cat's ragged purring until his anger subsided, slowly giving way to a heavy, relentless hopelessness.

It wasn't as if the Weasel's confession of love had changed anything, after all. It had long since become clear that he could expect nothing from her, that they would never again be the people they had been when they had first kissed on the edge of the quidditch pitch. Although hearing that painfully stark conversation had, at least, made one thing crystal clear – there was no way he was going to stay in this godforsaken house a moment longer. He refused to remain there, surrounded by ghosts and half-formed memories, forced to relive it all night after night. He had spent the last six months trying to forget his past.

He uncurled from the chair and returned the books to their shelves one by one, stepping blindly over Crookshanks as the cat wove between his legs. He was already planning his next move. He knew a place – a shed in the outskirts of a forest in Wales, far out of reach of Muggles and wizards alike. There was really nothing there - no shops, no houses, no people for miles - but something told him that he wouldn't need somewhere for long. The attacks were getting worse every time, and the more time passed, the more he began to accept that there was no cure. No surprise remedy, no quick fix – he had no way out of this.

His chest seared, forcing him to catch his breath. As he closed his eyes and waited for it to pass, a deep, ugly resentment began to build in its wake. Overhearing the conversation had brought home some of the hopelessness of his situation, and the sickening bright future lying in wait for Weasel was a sharp contrast. Weasel and Hermione would probably be fucking by the end of the week.

By the time he emerged into the corridor, cold, biting rage had set into him like a lead weight. He had been planning to simply return to his room, but instead he found himself turning and heading down the stairs. He could hear voices below, coming from the kitchen, and decided with deadpan certainty that he wanted a coffee. He was fed up of sneaking around the house, as if he was afraid of them. He made it to the bottom of the stairs to the kitchen, the chattering voices ringing in his ears, and shoved the door open. The silence that fell in the room brought a satisfied smirk to his face.

"Morning."

He was met with a flurry of exchanged glances and bitter scowls. He looked around. Thomas, Abbot, Longbottom, George Weasley and Ginny were crowded around the table. Longbottom glanced up, and then paled and quickly ducked his head again. Finnigan stood beside the fire, gulping from a large mug of tea. The Weasel was rooting in the cupboards, and emerged with a large box of Frazzle's Popping Oats. He straightened up, shaking the box critically, and turned. His gaze darkened at once as he saw Draco. He set the box down and folded his arms, his movements slow and decisive. Draco fixed him with a slow, careful smirk.

"What, no pleasantries?"

"What do you want?" Weasel said flatly.

"Nothing, nothing." He stepped forwards, glancing down at the others as he went. "Just fancied a coffee."

He caught sight of a cafetière sitting on the workbench and strolled leisurely over to it, plucked a mug out of the drying rack. Weasel bristled as soon as his fingers brushed the handle.

"Make your own. That's mine."

"Come now, Weasel, at least try to share."

He poured the coffee out, finishing the last of it and returning the cafetière empty. He turned around and made sure to look Weasel in the eye as he sipped it, cocked his head in mock thought.

"Did you make this?"

Weasel's eyes narrowed. Draco swirled the coffee around the mug, letting the pause drag on for a little while.

"Thought so. It tastes like actual shit."

He poured the contents of the mug away into the sink, tilting the mug just enough to let the coffee run out slowly. Weasel's stare burned into him, and he enjoyed the other boy's furious silence. Somewhere behind him, his ginger sister sighed heavily and got up from the table. She strode over, appearing momentarily between them to deposit her plate in the sink.

"Pouring away our coffee - wow, Malfoy, you've really outdone yourself," she muttered.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he said as she pushed past him. "Tell Potter to get better help in this dump. The current staff don't seem to be pulling their weight."

He looked pointedly at Weasel. Ginny Weasley ignored him, moving instead towards the door to the stairs. He heard the creak of its hinges as she slipped out. She never had been one for rising to his insults - apparently she had more sense than her volatile brother, who was still glaring at him.

"Did you want something, Malfoy?" Thomas said icily from the table.

Draco frowned, pretending to consider the question. "Did I? Oh yes." He nodded at the Frazzle's Popping Oats. "I think I'll have those for breakfast."

He reached for them, and Weasel instantly snatched them away. He pushed the box away, out of Draco's reach, and folded his arms again. He looked as if he were trying to impersonate a bodyguard. Poorly so. Draco raised his eyebrows in a wordless challenge, and Weasel finally spoke up.

"This isn't your house, Malfoy. You're not just going to... to..." Weasel gesticulated as he searched for the words, glancing at the others for support. "... to walk in and demand things."

"Yeah, you know what? It's not yours either." Draco reached instead for an empty glass on the draining board and filled it with water, keeping his tone light and conversational. "I bet Potter's sick to death of you hanging around like a Boggart. Why don't you find something to do with yourself?"

"You're one to talk. No one _wants_ you here."

"Not exactly thrilled to be here myself. But I suppose you'll have to take that up with Potter." Draco downed the glass of water and licked his lips. "Oh, no - you don't really do planning, do you Weasel? Your more of a... _follower_."

He could practically feel the anger radiating off the other boy, and it was making him feel significantly better about the sour start to the morning. He grinned, let Weasel struggle and fail to come up with a response for a few moments longer. Then he set the glass down on the counter beside the abandoned coffee mug and turned away, satisfied with his work.

"Hey. _Hey."_

Draco stopped, turned. Weasel's jaw was working furiously, his lips a thin, tight line. He stabbed a finger at the glass and coffee mug.

"Clean that up."

Draco laughed shortly. "I don't think so. Why don't you?"

"Clean it up, _now._ "

Apparently there was a little more fun still to be had. Draco looked at the mess, allowing his grin to grow wider. He knew that the others were watching them, and that this had suddenly become a question of pride for Weasel. He wondered how far he could push him.

"What, are you going to _make_ me, Weasel? Surprised you know anything about being clean at all, seeing as you were _born in a bin_."

The old school jibe had the same effect now as it did then – Weasley's face turned bright red, his eyes narrowed, and his hand went at once to his wand. He pointed it fiercely at Draco. The ridiculous scale of his response was laughable - Draco had never known someone to draw wands over the washing up before.

"Watch it, Malfoy," Weasel snapped. "This isn't Hogwarts, and there's no one stopping me from cursing that smirk off your face."

"Go on, then."

Draco took a sharp step forwards, squaring up to him. Weasley was a little taller than himself, but only by an inch or so. And Draco was willing to bet that the other boy was no match for him, having spent most of the war apparently huddled in a tent rather than out in Voldemort's world. He didn't bother drawing his wand – simply placed himself directly in front of the other boy, staring him dead in the eye, daring him to back away.

"Now's your chance, Weasel, do it. Teach the nasty Death Eater a lesson."

"Ron, don't bother with him," Thomas called from across the room.

Weasley's lip twitched. The interjection only seemed to spur him on. "Don't push it, or I will."

"I'm terrified," Draco said flatly. "Please, Weasley, go for it."

Weasley's knuckles whitened as he gripped his wand. His jaw worked furiously. He shifted his weight from his left to his right. Draco waited a few seconds more, and then smirked and turned away. He headed for the door to the kitchen, glancing around at the others as he went. Abbot was looking at the table, her mouth downturned. George Weasley and Finnigan looked back at him, both looking decidedly pissed off, but apparently unwilling to encourage the fight. Draco allowed himself a couple of final twists of the knife before he left.

"Thought so. Just a big, ginger coward after all, eh, Weasel? You know, one day people are going to start asking what exactly you did during the war – apart from sulk and hide behind Potter, that is. Maybe it's time to go back and live in that pigsty your parents call a house – suits you far better than this Auror joke –"

 _"Bombardo!"_

"Ron, _no!_ "

Thomas' voice had Draco's shoulders stiffening just before the curse hit him. Its impact caught him off guard and he staggered into the wall, managing to grab it before he could fall. Instantly his head swung with sickening dizziness as pain erupted from his chest. He blinked hard, horribly aware of the sudden tightness of his chest, the way the ground was bucking furiously beneath his feet. Jesus, he couldn't let his injury get the better of him now, not in front of fucking Weasel… He forced himself to gulp in air, and to his relief, his vision began to clear. He glanced over his shoulder, one hand still braced against the wall, to find Weasel struggling to aim his wand again – Finnigan had somehow got across the room and was wrestling with him, trying to snatch his wand away. Weasley's furious eyes were trained on him, burning with humiliation and anger.

Draco turned slowly, straightening, feeling his shoulder cautiously with one hand. He suspected the spell must have been cast sloppily and jogged off course by Thomas' intervention to have been so weak. _Bombardo_ was a powerful spell, and not something to be thrown around lightly in duels. If Weasel hadn't fudged it, it could have caused some serious harm. But no damage had been done really – it was his previous ailment that had produced such a strong reaction. Rolling his shoulders carefully, ensuring he was still in one piece, Draco finally let the anger that had been building in him since that morning flood free. He reached for his wand.

"Hey, _stop!"_ George Weasley had lurched up from the table and was approaching them, drawing his own wand. "No duelling in Harry's kitchen – come on. Put the wands _down._ "

"Well, that was _brave,_ Weasel," Draco said, allowing his voice to remain dangerously low. "Care to try again?"

"Fuck you, Malfoy!" Weasley snapped, wrenching free of Thomas. _"Stupefy!"_

Draco blocked the spell, but felt the shield he summoned waver slightly – he still felt the residue of Weasel's attack roll over his skin. He swore silently – he'd forgotten about the way his non-verbal magic had been on the glitch recently due to his wound. Still, there was no way he was going to back down now. Weasley was already lifting his wand again, and Draco wasn't about to let him get another free shot in.

 _"Cantrifus."_

Weasley ducked his attack, barely missing it, and Thomas leapt backwards out of the way, apparently deciding that his part in the brawl was over. Draco strode forwards without waiting for Weasley to get back up, and threw another curse at him.

 _"Fernunculus."_

 _"Tergo!"_

He moved smartly aside, felt the heat as the spell flew by his face. Something shattered behind him. He didn't care. For some reason, as he followed Weasley around the table, all he could think of was the bumbling idiot's arms around her. Casually, possessively, arrogantly… The conversation he had heard that morning inserted itself rudely into his head once again and white-hot fury rose up in him like a dragon. Weasley slashed his wand, his face crumpled with anger.

 _"Musco– "_

 _"Expelliarmus – Levicorpos."_

Weasel's wand leapt from his hand seconds before he was flung back against the wall of the kitchen. He hit it hard and Draco took savage delight in the pain that flickered across his face. He closed the short remaining distance between them and grabbed Weasley by the collar, lifting his wand threateningly. Weasley had the decency to glare back at him, pinned to the wall and yet still clearly furious.

"Get the fuck off me."

"Don't start what you can't finish, Weasel."

"Let me down from here, I'm going to blast your fucking head off–"

"Think we've established that that's utter bullshit – _your_ head, on the other hand…"

" _Hey!_ "

George Weasely and Finnigan were there, having scrambled over the kitchen table to get to them. Both had their wands drawn, both were eyeing Draco warily as if he were an escaped wolf. George stepped closer and took hold of Draco's wrist, holding it warningly even as he gripped Weasel's collar.

"Let him go. _Now_ , Malfoy."

Draco didn't move his gaze from Weasel, who was staring back at him as if hoping to turn his eyes to lasers. For a moment, Draco considered simply throwing in the towel and taking the brawl up a notch – he could do with letting off some steam – but his chest smarted painfully and the dizziness returned. The hold of his spell began to waver. He wouldn't be able to hold it much longer. Apparently his injury didn't appreciate his current position, or the adrenaline of the last few minutes. He held on a moment longer, enjoying his position of power, and then let the spell go and took three steps back. Weasley dropped from the wall and instantly made as if to throw himself after his opponent, but his brother caught hold of him and held him back with both arms.

"For God's sake, Ron, grow up!"

"Get _off!_ "

"Better listen to your brother, Weasel," Draco muttered. "Obviously you're completely incapable of holding your own."

His voice sounded echoey and distant to his own ears. Not a good sign. He became aware of a dampness on his chest and realized that the wound must have started bleeding again. With some luck, his black sweatshirt wouldn't show the blood. Although it probably wasn't a good idea to remain in the kitchen with Weasley. He turned away, Thomas and Abbot moving quickly out of his way as he strode towards the door. Longbottom, he saw, hadn't even got up from the table, still sitting there and watching them with wide eyes like a rabbit in the headlights. He heard rather than saw Weasel tear free of his brother, but was somewhat relieved to not find himself the victim of another challenge to fight. He could hear Weasel's heavy breathing, could feel the electric anger in the air like heat.

"We haven't forgotten what you are, Malfoy!" Weasel roared suddenly. "You're still the same slimy piece of shit you've always been, and I know you're still a Death Eater too."

Draco paused at the door. "Whatever you say, Weasel," he said. "Maybe just for you."

He ducked out into the corridor. His chest was throbbing violently now – he severely doubted he would make it up the stairs. Instead, he pulled together what little energy he had left and Disapparated. He only just managed it without splinching himself, dropping heavily down onto the bed. He lay there, breathing deeply, trying to pull himself together. Eventually, after what seemed like an age, the violent pain in his chest began to subside. As his breathing evened out and the nauseating swirling in his head stilled, he closed his eyes. A determined resolution took shape.

He would try to sleep for a little while longer. Then he would pack his bag and leave.

 **~O~**

Harry met her in the tiny coffee shop around the corner from Grimmauld Place. She had taken to going there to work when the house was too noisy to concentrate in, and had grown fond of its small wooden tables and odd, abstract decor. It was the kind of place which was either trying extremely hard, or not at all - every mug was mismatching, every teaspoon different as if snatched from the jumble section of a charity shop, and the tables were a combination of old, worn desks and tiny round coffee stands. It reminded her a little of Professor Trelawney's classroom, particularly with the patterned throws and cushions thrown about at random. There were a series of seemingly unrelated paintings of horses and serious-looking people in stiff Victorian clothing dotted over the walls. She waved to Harry as he entered and he offered her a weary smile. As he dropped down into the chair opposite her, she pushed the cup of tea she had already purchased for him across the table.

"Hermione, you're amazing," he sighed, descending on the cup at once.

"Long day?"

She watched him over the brim over her coffee mug. He looked tired, fed up - ready for a holiday. His hair was even messier than usual and when he took his glasses off to rub his eyes she could see tell-tale bags which suggested he'd had one too many late nights.

"Long _month_ ," he corrected her. "I feel like it just keeps heaping on more."

"You've had news?"

"There's been another attack." He glanced around; the cafe was deserted, and the soft strumming of acoustic guitar from the radio protected them from prying ears. "Muggles this time. A family in Bristol - one of the children was killed." His face crumpled suddenly and he scrubbed both hands across it, drawing in a deep breath. "I don't know if I can take this, Hermione," he said heavily. "I thought it was my responsibility to see this out, to make sure there was no way Voldemort could threaten us or our children or our children's children... But now I just... I feel like I want it to be over with. My whole life has been wrapped up in this war."

"No one would think less of you if you decided to leave the Order," she said. "They could still use Grimmauld Place - you could rent to them, use the money to get somewhere further out of the city."

"I felt like I was supposed to see it done." He turned the teaspoon over and over between his forefingers. "But I think I just want to move on now. I think I need to."

"Well, Ginny would love that," she said, smiling, trying to lighten the mood. "She's been talking about taking a year out to travel for ages. You could both go."

"I know she wouldn't mind." He paused. "It's more explaining to the Order that I've had enough."

The hesitation was understandable. In the rush of high spirits that had followed Voldemort's defeat, they had all pledged to continue to work with the Order. It had just felt like the logical next step at the time, and a suitable way of honouring the members who had died at the Battle. Many were settling into their new lifestyles with renewed vigour - she had never seen Ron so enthusiastic. But she could see the way the strain was beginning to show in Harry's eyes, and she doubted that he was quite as willing to stay as he had been at the start. She reached for his arm and squeezed it sympathetically.

"You know, you've been fighting this since you were eleven," she said. "There's no shame in wanting a life of your own."

He managed a lopsided, half real smile and let out a sigh, leaning over his cup of tea with a little more ease than before. They didn't get much time like this together now, and it was nice to see him relax a little. She smiled back at him, enjoying the easy companionship.

"Sorry, Hermione - I didn't mean to rant. Everything ok with you?"

"Fine, fine. I just wanted to get out of the house, you know."

She was out of practise at lying, and the glint in his eye told her that she had been caught out at once. He stirred his tea, taking a moment to look at her. She had the urge to pull her hair straight and dust down her jumper - she felt like she was about to be interrogated. But his curiosity was born out of concern, not malice, and she tried to force herself to relax. Apparently he could read her like a book - he smiled and changed the subject.

"How was the trial?"

She had no idea. She had spent the whole hearing staring at a blank notebook, pen poised, eyes glazed. Her head had been too full to even listen to what the judge had been saying. She had slipped away as quickly as she could afterwards, unable to force small talk with the lawyers milling about.

"Fine, fine."

She realised her mistake too late - Harry'a eyebrows lifted behind his glasses and his face brightened with an amusement.

"Fine? What, no detailed critique of the type of judge, the particulars of the case, the history of the building?"

She let herself laugh. "I don't know, Harry, I guess I've been... distracted."

"I'll say." He cocked his head, trying to catch her eye. "I know I haven't been around much, but you've been quiet these last few days."

She hesitated. "I've been thinking."

"Is anything wrong?"

The enormity of the question baffled her, and it took her a while to pick the right words. For a second she considered simply telling him everything, every gory detail, but he broke in again before the precarious confession could tumble free.

"Is it Ron? I noticed things were a little off with you guys."

She shook her head. Everyone seemed to be convinced that she and Ron were destined to be together, that he was all that occupied her mind. Their conversation earlier nudged at her but she tore her mind away from it. Her time with Harry was valuable, and she couldn't afford to waste it complaining about Ron. She had to try to explain what was really on her mind.

"Is it Malfoy?" Harry said suddenly, his gaze narrowing. "I know it's weird having him stay with us... he hasn't done anything to you, has he?"

"No, no - nothing like that." The question gave her an in, and she propped her elbows on the table and leaned forwards. "Do you remember Malfoy Manor?"

Harry almost winced, as if a bad taste had entered his mouth. "Yeah. Not fondly."

"Did you ever tell anyone about... about how Malfoy helped us that day? Hestia or someone?"

He frowned, thinking hard. "I don't know, it's hard to remember. I mean, we never really found out why he did in the first place. I actually thought you'd found a way to _imperio_ him or something at first."

"Why do you think he did it?"

"I don't know." He ran a hand through his hair, frowning into space. "I just thought he felt guilty or something. I mean, he'd always been a twat, but never a murderer. He couldn't kill Dumbledore, and if he'd let us die, Voldemort would have won. Maybe he didn't want the whole war on his conscience."

"But it was a massive risk to take."

"Nah, his parents would have protected him. Maybe he realised he was on the wrong side, but wasn't brave enough to do anything about it." He shrugged, emerging from his memories. "You think we should tell Hestia?"

"Shouldn't she know?"

"I guess. But just because he helped us then, doesn't mean he's still on our side now."

Harry took a sip from his tea, brow furrowed. She bit her lip, trying to contain the words desperate to break free. She wanted more than anything to be free of the awful secret, to just stop hiding and explain. Perhaps he wouldn't even care - he no longer spoke of Malfoy with the same venom as in their school days. Maybe they had all matured. She took a deep breath.

"Harry... There's something I have to tell..."

She trailed off. He was distracted by something beyond the window - a small, ruffled owl, she realised, which had landed there at some point in the last few minutes and was pecking at the glass insistently. After a furtive glance around the cafe he let it in, took the roll of parchment attached to its leg and unravelled it. She forced herself to smother her words, cleared her throat.

"What is it?"

"It's from Ron." His eyes darkened as they skittered across the page. "He wants a house meeting. With everyone."

"When?"

He looked up at her. "Right now."

The acoustic music continued to warble gently around them. Harry laid down the letter on the table and seized his teacup.

"Well," he muttered. "Three guesses what this is about."

"Malfoy." She sighed. "We don't have to go..."

"No, we do," he said. "They live there too - this has to be addressed, or its just going to be more of a problem."

The green eyes behind his glasses were misted with thought, and she cupped her hands around her coffee mug in an attempt to distract herself from her own building exasperation. She had been so close to finally being able to share everything with him, so close to having someone actually understand... He blinked suddenly, as if returning to the present.

"Sorry, Hermione - were you about to say something...?"

"No, no," she said quickly. "It's fine. We should go. They'll be waiting."

She finished her coffee and pulled on her coat, rising for the table. Harry opened the window to let the owl back outside before following suit, draining the last of his tea.

"I'll mention it to her. Hestia," he clarified as she blinked at him in confusion. "Maybe you're right - what Malfoy did is important."

She nodded, able to feel some relief. Together they shuffled out of the coffee shop and into the chill autumn air, turning their collars up against the cold, preparing themselves for battle.

 **~O~**

As Draco smoothed his only other presentable shirt flat and tucked it into the top of his suitcase – filing it carefully into the cramped wardrobe compartment to the left of the opening – a violent twinge ran from his stomach to his chest and forced him to freeze in position. He fought to draw breath into his lungs, automatically frozen in anticipation, and straightened slowly as the pain receded. He stood motionless for a few minutes, waiting, but other than the old, persistent ache he felt nothing. He felt his inside jacket pocket, drew out the bottle of amber liquid that had become his lifeline, and with shaky hands took a large swig.

His last attack had been the night before. The pain never returned again so soon, nor so suddenly. For a moment, he considered staying one more night, just to be sure, but shook off the idea before it could settle in his head. He could not stay another hour.

He turned slowly, running his eyes over the room in a final check for any misplaced possessions, his hand moving to his right breast pocket to brush against the familiar form of his wand stored there. The bed was made with extreme precision, the window closed, the ashtray on the sill that had become his anchor emptied and packed away. The chest of drawers, the only other furniture, had barely been used in the first place. He no longer had enough possessions to fill them.

All that remained was his reflection in the small mirror beside the window. He gazed at it, feeling oddly detached from the figure staring back at him. He did not know the man in the mirror. The person he saw was skinny rather than lean, hands trembling at his sides, clothes faded rather than jet black. His hair, smoothed back as always, looked grey instead of blonde. His pale skin was lifeless and his eyes, nestled in two heavy, grey circles, could have been made of glass rather than flesh. He tore himself away from the image, taking as deep a breath as he could muster before snatching up his small suitcase and heading for the door. His shoulders straightened, a reflexive habit for encountering the outside world, his chin lifted.

He didn't know exactly where he was going. Part of him longed to seek out Blaise Zabini, who he knew was living somewhere in London, and who would not turn him away should he ask for help. But it was a dream, an idealistic hesitation, and he knew he wouldn't go. To go to Zabini meant revealing just how bad the curse had become, and submitting to allowing someone to see him writhing on the floor in pathetic fits. That, and he hadn't spoken to Zabini since Hogwarts. No. He would go to the shed in Wales. It was bare aside from a bed and a sink, constructed only from wooden boards. It was empty, abandoned, and it would be perfect. After all, he was slowly realising that he wasn't looking for somewhere new to live. He was looking for somewhere to give up.

He took the stairs quietly, passing room after room. Most were empty, it seemed. For a moment he was hopeful – everyone must have gone out on some errand, some work must have presented itself. But as he neared the final staircase leading into the hall, his hope dissolved. He could hear voices. Raised voices. And as he drew closer, and the words became clearer, he began to realise what was happening downstairs.

"... going to put up with him anymore," Weasel's voice was said heatedly. "He swans around here like he owns the place."

Abbot's voice was high and tremulous in agreement. "Most of us have come here to feel safe, not to be put in more danger!"

"He is defected," Lovegood's dreamy murmur was a stark contrast. "So, really, he's safer with here than somewhere else."

"No one in this room actually believes that!" Now it was someone else speaking up, Finnigan, perhaps. "We have no proof that he isn't a double agent."

"Do you really think I'd let him in here for one second if I didn't trust Hestia's story? Do you really think I'd risk all your lives like that? You lot – all of you – you're all I have left in the world."

He came to the bottom of the stairs and paused, oddly struck. Out of all of them, once more Potter was the one coming to his rescue. He had preferred it when the two of them were simple enemies. He didn't know how to navigate this weird, awkward place they had found themselves in now. The more Potter tried to help, the more Draco's self-hatred grew. The living room door was ajar – it was there the voices were coming from. He would have to pass it to get to the front door. He took a step forwards, moving as quietly as possible. Perhaps he could make it past without being noticed.

"How can you be sure he's not lying though, Harry?" Now came Longbottom's voice. As usual, he sounded anxious. "How can anyone be sure?"

"We have a right to feel safe!" Abbot said tightly. "Neville can't even go into the kitchen because he's scared that snake will be there! How are any of us supposed to live and breathe with him here, he's like a… like a disgusting ghost, following us around!"

Draco resisted the urge to snort at that. Ever since arriving all he had done was try to keep to himself – unfortunately, life had a funny way of unravelling all his plans to go unnoticed by the house's other occupants. He reached the door and peered through the gap, hoping the room would be too engaged in their debate to notice him.

The group of friends were stood in a rough circle. He could see several of the usual suspects – Abbot, Thomas, Longbottom, Finnigan, Pavarti and of course the Weasleys, Ginny, George and Ron. Directly beside the door, just in front of him, stood Potter and… he groaned inwardly. Of course Hermione would be the person standing closest to him. He had not heard her voice in the fray, neither speaking for him or against him, and now he could see her standing silently, worrying at her lower lip, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her brow was furrowed as she watched the argument. She was a wall, stiffly holding back anything that might indicate what she thought of the subject. The subject, of course, being himself. He stayed, taking a few moments to watch her. With the two of them trying so hard to avoid each other, he had not been able to take her in for a long time. Now, once more, he could see the gentle curve of her nose, the soft frame of her face, the wave of her bushy, wild hair. His heart ached abruptly, in a way that had nothing to do with his affliction, and he pulled himself away forcefully. He couldn't bear to think of what had been. Not when it was so obviously never to return.

He was about to slip past the door, glancing around the room to ensure he was still hidden, when Longbottom suddenly turned away and made as if to leave the room, apparently uncomfortable with the subject. Indeed, Draco doubted the little, fat fool had ever faced so much confrontation in his life. And, as he turned, his small eyes fell upon Draco's. He froze at once, sweat pooled on his forehead, and his upper lip twitched violently. Draco would have found it funny if his cover hadn't just been blown. Now he had no choice – his pride would not let him be seen sneaking away. He stepped fully into the doorway, straightening his neck, fixing the quivering figure across the room with an icy glare. Across the preoccupied room Thomas was speaking, eyeing Harry with an almost pleading look.

"… gotta admit, mate, that things have been rocky since he's been here. We need to be unified now, and he's just making everyone unhappy. He needs to find some other place to hide. It's not like he'd ever be there for us if we needed him."

"He's a fucking creep," Weasel muttered. "Slimy fucking traitor."

"Weasel, you're making me blush."

Despite the situation, Draco was able to enjoy the way the whole room flinched in surprise at his voice. Weasel's eyes widened, but he quickly gathered his composure and narrowed his gaze.

"Been lurking around the house again, Malfoy? Welcome to yet another conversation you weren't invited to."

Draco simply quirked an eyebrow. He had no interest in trying to change their minds. Really, he couldn't care less. But Hermione and Potter, just in front of him, had turned and were looking at him with a mixture of surprise, disappointment and uncertainty that was harder to shrug off. He avoided their gazes, ignored Potter's attempt to catch his eye, instead taking the opportunity to sneer at Weasel.

"This is exactly what we're saying!" Abbot burst out, appealing to Potter, who was apparently fumbling for words. "Who knows what he's up to, being here? He's always listening, always watching."

"We can't turn him out on the streets," Ginny said, finally offering Potter some vocal support. "If he's causing that much of an issue, why don't we just lock him into his room for a while, until you're convinced?"

"Not that the thought of being your prisoner doesn't fill me with joy," Draco broke in smoothly, "But there's really no need. I'm leaving, so you can all stop wetting yourselves over it."

He heard a sharp intake of breath from Hermione, but he couldn't look at her. Couldn't risk it. He didn't want to know if she was relieved or not. He could feel nausea building, a slight headache beginning to pound in his temples. He was sick of this, of pretending constantly that nothing they said mattered, that it didn't hurt to be so close to her and yet have nothing. Of tiptoeing around a house where everyone was convinced he was the devil incarnate. He glanced at Potter, whose face was scrunched in frustration.

"No one is leaving," he was saying angrily, shoving his glasses back up his nose. "For god's sake, this is ridiculous! Why isn't my word – _our_ word – enough? We've told you again and again that Malfoy isn't dangerous-"

"Potter, you're too sweet."

"This is supposed to be a safehouse!" Potter continued, shooting him an irritated glare at his quip. "Who are we if we turn away people who need help?"

"That's my point!" Abbot muttered. "We're supposed to feel _safe._ "

"Don't you worry, girls," Draco spoke before Potter could. "I wasn't planning on sneaking into your rooms in the night to violate you. Honesty, I wouldn't bother if you were the last shag I'd ever have."

" _Malfoy_." Potter gripped his arm, pulling him aside as the room flared up in response. "Where are you going to go?"

"I don't see why it should concern you," Draco shook him off, smoothed his sleeve. He was still trying desperately not to look at Hermione, even though he could feel her eyes on the back of his head. "I wouldn't want any assassins coming after me–" he tilted his head towards the room, " –and anyway, I'm sick of this place. It stinks of fucking Mudblood."

As soon as he had spoken, the room erupted into furious shouting. Potter's face fell and he turned towards the multitude of voices beating against him, doing his best to calm them. Draco wasn't quite allowed to enjoy the chaos he had just set off. As a red-faced Abbot stabbed her finger and Finnigan flung out an arm to hold back the Weasel, who had made as if to get up, that stinging feeling re-ignited in his stomach. And he suddenly realised what his building headache meant, what the sickness in his gut was, and cursed himself for not heeding his body's warning only a few minutes earlier in his room.

 _Fuck._ He wanted to scream. Why did it have to happen now? _Please, not now_. If he was quick enough, he could leave and Apparate to somewhere secluded, get it over with in private. The attacks weren't usually so close together - he would normally have a couple of days between each one. This was too soon... He turned sharply and headed for the door, but as soon as he emerged into the corridor a dizzying wave hit him and he was forced to reach for the wall. Darkness descended on his vision. He managed to stay upright despite the spinning ground. He would not, could not, faint in front of them.

A voice filtered through the beating pain in his head. His chest was beginning to burn, bearable but heralding the approaching storm, and he latched onto the voice in an effort to ignore it. Because it was the voice that always calmed him. And, somehow, it was speaking now.

"… don't _understand!"_ it cried, almost drowned in the roar of voices from the room. "You don't know him like… You don't know, and it'll probably never make sense to you, but there's another side to all this. He's faced as much danger as we have during the war. You just don't… don't get it."

In the midst of the violent shaking that was creeping into his limbs and his clenching lungs, those words almost brought him happiness. She had spoken up for him, and suddenly it didn't matter that his head was about to explode. At least he could leave knowing that she didn't hate him, that she might even still care about him a possibility, however small, was enough to make the dark dots recede from his vision for a moment, allow him to see. He realised was hunched over, leaning heavily against the wall, still a few steps from the door. He was too weak to Apparate now, but if he could just get outside, into the night, perhaps no one would see… He took another step and his legs crumbled. He dropped hard to his knees, struggling desperately to pull in a breath, squeezing his eyes closed. He was shaking harder now, not only from the effects of the curse, but also with fear. Because he knew how much it was going to fucking hurt. Every time, it took more from him. And he didn't know how much he had left to give.

"… wrong? Dr- Malfoy! _Malfoy!"_

Two small hands came down on his shoulders and he knew who it was. He knew those hands better than his own, and he knew that there was only one person in this godforsaken house who would, even if by accident, almost call him by his first name.

He opened his eyes to see her crouching over him, and the wall that had stood around her features was suddenly gone. For what felt like the first time in an age, her face was unguarded. And he could see panic in her eyes, see how worried she was, see a great feeling there directed at him… Bizarrely, he could feel himself smiling. The burning in his chest was rising to a horrible level, sending shards of agony through his veins with every heartbeat. He lifted a hand to his shirt, felt a slight wetness. It was bleeding, he realised dazedly. _Not good_. _Fuck._

" _Malfoy!"_

She had been trying to get him to respond, and it seemed she was through with waiting. She shook him violently by the shoulders, eliciting a gasp of pain, her face screwed tightly with fear.

"What's happening to you? What's _wrong,_ what…"

"It's fine…" He cringed at the sound of his own voice. It was trembling, thin, muffled by his clenched jaw. He did his best to relax but another wave of pain had his whole body stiffening. "S'nothing you can do."

"What do you _mean?"_

"Hermione, what's going on?"

Draco winced – Potter had, apparently, noticed. Which meant that, before long, the whole house would be pouring over him. In a last, desperate attempt to save face, he forced his hand into his inside pocket, grasping for the bottle of amber liquid. If he took enough, perhaps it would put him out before the attack hit. He managed to grip it, lifted it to his face with all his energy and tipped it back. There was barely a mouthful left, and rather than dulling his nerves the pain instead seemed to spike. He was unable to hold back a moan. As his arm fell, Hermione's hands snatched the bottle from his grip.

"What is this? Why are you taking Nightshade Scorita…" her voice trailed off and she looked at him sharply. When she spoke again her voice was quieter. "Draco, is… something's happened to you."

Before he could respond his head caved in on itself and the darkness swarmed back in on him. To his horror he let out a rough exclamation of pain as waves of heat and ice ran through his body, as his nerves began to sear with agony. The world dropped away from him and the curse clamped over his throat, cutting off his air. The storm was descending on him and he felt as if he were shrinking into the blackness at the back of his mind. He didn't want to feel anymore, he couldn't bear to feel it again. A wave of fiery, stinging pain rolled over him and, when it had passed, he realised he could feel the cold floor against his cheek. By some kind miracle, those small hands were still with him, flying over his body, pressing against his face. As if in another world, he could hear her screaming for him.

" _Draco! Draco, don't, please! Stop! Draco!"_

There were other voices, but they meant nothing. They weren't her. He wanted to hold onto her for as long as possible, hold her against him for one last time. His final breath in paradise before hell hit. He tried to lift his hand – he must have been able to, because he suddenly found her hand coming into contact with his, and tried to link their fingers. She clutched at him.

 _"Jesus, Hermione, is he breathing? Is he having a fit?"_

 _"I don't know, I don't know! Draco!"_

And then, quite suddenly, his body was tearing in two and he could hear himself screaming. The storm had hit. And no matter how hard he tried, it was some time before he was able to hand his body over to it and disappear into unconsciousness.

 **~O~**

He was screaming, and Hermione had never heard him scream before. It terrified her, shook her to her very core. It had all happened so fast – one moment he had been standing there, as proud and haughty and cruel as ever, his icy eyes glaring daggers at the others. The next he had not. The frenzy of the argument had filled her with anxiety - she felt as if she were being pushed towards a precipice, forced to speak up. She had tried, but the others were too angry, and his comments hadn't helped. As Harry tried to reason with them, she turned to look for Draco, only to find him gone. She had emerged into the corridor to look for him, and found him sinking to the ground, his face ashen, his body trembling wildly, his eyes glazed. She had lurched towards him, the argument still raging behind her forgotten in an instant.

"What's wrong? Dr-" She had to catch herself, glancing furtively over her shoulder. But the others were still shouting in the living room, oblivious. "Malfoy! _Malfoy!_ "

His eyes had been clamped shut but they opened as her hands came down on his shoulders and snapped up to meet her gaze. Tiny pin-pricks of sweat were standing out on his forehead and he was breathing hard and shallow through his nose, but more alarming was the naked stare boring into her. He was scared. Worse – he was in pain. She could see it in his shuddering, tense body, and suddenly all the secrecy and questions from the past few weeks were falling into place. His sickened complexion, his long hours in bed, his reluctance to explain anything at all… She stared at him with a horrible, building horror, and to her disbelief the corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a smile. His hand was lifting to press against his chest, and as she followed its trajectory she began to notice the dampness spreading there, originally masked by the black fabric. Her hands scrabbled for his buttons, knocking his shaking fingers away, and she pulled the shirt open far enough to see bandages, once white, now stained with an ugly, sick, purpling mass of blood.

For a moment, she could only sit frozen as it assaulted her eyes. It couldn't be real, and yet it was. She couldn't possibly have missed such an injury, and yet she had.

"Draco…" his name fell from her lips before she could stop it this time. He was still gazing at her with that terrible faded smile, but it was as if he could not hear her. He wasn't replying, and his silence was severely unnerving. He abruptly slumped further down the wall and she shifted closer on her knees, trying to catch hold of him. Her hand came down on the blood as if to try to apply pressure, but then jerked away again just as fast. She didn't know what to do, didn't even know what it _was._

"How did this happen? Malfoy? _Malfoy!_ "

He was just lying there, and she was desperate. She gripped him tightly by the shoulders and shook him violently. He sucked in a sharp breath, his body rigid with the agony of the movement, and she relaxed her grip at once.

"What's happening to you?" she repeated, her voice trembling. "What's _wrong,_ what…"

"It's fine… S'nothing you can do…"

If he had meant to reassure her, he had not. His shaking voice was laden with a weakness she had never heard before, and fear settled over her like a shroud.

"What do you _mean?"_ she hissed.

He looked up, his silvery eyes filled with regret, with something like grief. Before either of them could speak, she a voice behind her interrupted them.

"Hermione, what's going on?"

Relief hit her at the sound of Harry's voice. She twisted around to see him standing just outside the living room door, his face blank with shock. He looked at Malfoy and at her, a slow frown deepening on his forehead. A rush of understanding flashed between them.

"Harry, help me," she breathed, suddenly terrified of being joined by the others.

He offered her a short nod. "I'll call for help."

He ducked back into the room, shutting the door fast behind him. Hermione turned back to see Draco swallowing the last few drops of amber liquid from a small bottle. He made a noise of frustration as he let his shaking arm fall, and then a low moan. His eyes were screwed tightly shut again, his breathing growing shallower, his whole body clenching stiffly. She snatched the bottle from him, her only indicator of what was going on, and scanned the bottle quickly. She read the printed label several times, convincing herself that it was correct.

"What is this? Why are you taking Nightshade Scorita…"

And then it came to her, like a clear image appearing out of a crystal ball. She looked at him sharply, found his eyes cracked open. She'd read about Nightshade Scorita briefly. To her knowledge, it was usually prescribed to remedy the effects of dark magic… She swallowed hard, fighting her dry throat, trying to remain calm.

"Draco, is…" she had to start again. "Something's happened to you."

She had intended to ask him, but it came out as a statement instead. His lips parted as if to speak – and then, like an avalanche hitting, everything disintegrated. With a rough half gasp, half shout of pain, a huge spasm rolled over him and his body jerked and flinched in response. She dove forwards, the bottle forgotten, managed to ease his fall as he dropped to his side on the floor. He curled in on himself at once, his face distorted with pain.

"Draco! _Harry!"_

She whipped out her wand and aimed it with a shaking hand.

" _Protego. Seloma. Balmix. Episkey._ Please!"

Her spells bounced off him like stones, having no effect. She tried to feel for his pulse but he was moving too much for her to count it. It was only as she was trying to catch hold of his jerking limbs that she realised he had stopped breathing.

"Draco!" her voice had risen several octaves in panic now, her desperation mounting with every further second he failed to respond to her cries. "Draco, don't, please! Stop! Draco!"

She barely knew what she was saying. She was simply pleading. Because he was leaving her, he was falling away into a place she would not be able to follow him to, and despite all of her silence and all of the distance she had kept since he had returned, she suddenly knew beyond a doubt that she was not over him. She could not let him go. Not like this, not this suddenly.

Abruptly, Harry and Ginny were appearing beside her, Hannah towed along with them. Of course – she had been training to be a Medi-Witch over the past few months, although she was barely even beginning to practise. She tried the spells Hermione had already cast, and then more, but to no effect.

"What happened?" Harry demanded.

"I don't know! He just… Look…"

She could barely direct them to the wound. Draco's body was still stiff and jerking – the spasms were growing more frequent. He still hadn't drawn a breath and she pressed her hands against his face, willing him to release his tightly clenched jaw.

"Draco! _Draco!"_

"What's happening, Hannah?" Ginny said as the other girl stopped in her administrations. "Why can't you stop it?"

"I don't know what it is," Hannah replied shakily, glancing up at them all with round eyes. "I can't do _anything."_

"I sent word to the Order, someone should be coming." Harry was speaking fast, his words tumbling over one another. "Or maybe we should go to St. Mungos…"

Draco's arm abruptly lifted. For a moment, she thought he was going to cast a spell. But then his hand came down on hers, and his fingers wove between hers in a touch so achingly familiar that she felt a sob coil in her throat. It was the same thing he had used to do when comforting her… She clutched at his hand, as if she thought she could drag him back to reality. His arm dropped but she held it tightly, her nails digging into him, begging with flesh.

"Jesus, Hermione." Harry seemed to be struggling to maintain control over the rapidly unravelling situation. He stood but did not leave, as if only for something to do. "Is he breathing? Is he having a fit? Like epilepsy or something…"

"I don't know, I don't know!" Her mind, the thing she usually relied on for answers, was blank. "Draco!"

His eyes opened. And then, before she was allowed any sense of relief, they rolled back in his head and a scream like nothing she had ever heard tore from his throat. Ginny, Harry and Hannah flinched away and she was dimly aware of the door to the living room bursting open, but she didn't dare look away. It was like watching the Cruciatus Curse descend, and yet she knew he had suffered that before and survived. This was different – somehow vicious, somehow violent. His body jerked and twisted as if pulled by an unseen hand, and she tried again to grab hold of him, try to hold him down before he hurt himself.

"Hannah, _do something!"_

She heard Harry shouting over the screams, but she knew it was no use. Hannah could do nothing. None of them could. She was watching him slowly dying – she knew it as clearly as if it had been written in blood on the wall. His hand ripped out of her grip and she snatched for it again blindly. Before she could find it, an arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her up and away. She fought but it would not let go, and a voice hissed into her ear.

"Don't touch him, 'Mione, it could be anything!"

Ron. She drove her elbow into his gut and his grip loosened, but he still held tight to her shirt as she tried to run back. On the ground no more than a metre away, Draco was still flinching, still jerking, occasional half-formed cries of pain breaking free. She could almost feel the air shimmering with it. She was aware of the others murmuring behind her, of the tight grip Ron kept around her. As if he was trying to silently ask her what was happening - not with Draco, but rather with her reaction. Which, of course, to them would seem insane. But she couldn't answer him now. Draco's screams were finally beginning to stutter, heaving into stunted shouts and moans, and for the life of her she didn't know if it was because the fit was finishing or because he was... She didn't let herself finish the thought.

"Hermione, stop!"

"Get _off_ me!"

With a final twist she pulled free and in a moment was back at Draco's side. There wasn't time to stop and apologise for how harshly the words had come out, how aggressive she had just sounded. Her hand went at once to the bandages beneath his shirt, now sodden with the dark, purple blood, and instantly pulled away at the unexpected surge of heat she felt there. Desperate to help somehow, in any way, she slipped her arm beneath his shoulders and lifted his head from the ground. There was a red mark on his temple where the spasms had driven his skull against the floor and his fluttering eyelids revealed only white, rolling eyes. She held onto him as the shudders rolling mercilessly over his body began to subside and the cries faltered to small, painful noises. It was like watching the tide roll out. And then, with a last jerking shiver, he was a dead weight in her arms and his eyes were shut. Silence hit them like a detonated grenade.

"Fucking... What the fuck," George whispered into it.

Hermione bent her head, pressed her trembling fingers against his neck. It took a few moments for her to find the weak, fluttering pulse, which was still by some miracle ticking away. Enough time for her to realise that he still wasn't breathing.

"No... No, no, Draco, breathe," she muttered, almost to herself. "Breathe now, for god's sake..."

"Hermione?" Harry had come back, kneeling beside her once more.

"Not breathing," she said blindly.

How long since he had stopped breathing? It had been just before the thing, whatever it was, had got bad. Three minutes? Five? She didn't know exactly how long before the lack of oxygen to the brain started to cause damage. Not long. But he must have drawn breath to scream... It was her only hope. But still, his lips had a bluish tinge and his face was even more ashen than before. She snatched up her wand. People were speaking, maybe to one another, maybe to her, but she couldn't waste time listening or answering. She aimed, raking her brain.

" _Salvo. Musilacum. Respirto. Respirto!_ "

Nothing. She threw her wand down, her fear rushing at her like a freight train. Her blood was roaring in her ears. She couldn't let him just die there in the corridor, couldn't bear for that to just be the end of whatever they'd had... And then, just as she was about to descend into full-blown hysteria, he breathed. Air rushed into him and flew out again in a hoarse, rasping cough. It was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard, and tears welled up in her eyes. He was limp again in her arms within moments, but he was breathing, no matter how shallow, no matter how weak, he was alive. She clung onto him, searching his face for some sign of life or consciousness, but he gave no indication that he was waking. His eyes remained firmly closed.

"Jesus, Hermione," Ginny said.

She looked up, and found herself looking into a dozen piercing stares. Her friends formed a wall around her. Their expressions were a medley of confusion, shock, fear, disbelief... There was nothing she could do to explain. All she could do was kneel there, unable to let him go.

 **Soooo they finally know at least. Not sure how this went, so please do let me know if it was any good...**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

 **Again, thanks for the reviews. Glad the last chapter went ok. I wrote these parts so long ago that sometimes it's hard to fill in the blanks - hopefully it flows ok.  
**

 **There's a part in this bit which goes waaaaaay back to earlier in the flashbacks from this fic - hopefully it makes sense. We're going to be dotting around in flashbacks for a little longer, although from here on in it'll be more present-focused than past-focused.**

* * *

 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

* * *

 _ **Now**_

In the small attic room that had become Draco's, afternoon was turning to evening and the light shafting through the window was greying as the minutes passed. The clouds were too thick for a sunset that night. She watched a dull fog descending over the rooftops of London, and wished more than anything that she could be anywhere else. She was not alone - Harry stood nearby, his arms folded, his gaze unreadable. A strange silence had settled over him since the events of that evening, and he had not spoken much since they had returned to the attic room. Ginny and Ron had joined them, too, although they hovered by the door like unwelcome guests as Hermione paced back and forth. She returned to the bed and lifted her hands briefly before letting them fall, unable to bring herself to touch the bloodied bandages wrapped around Draco's body. Time and again she tried to bring herself to examine the wound, but she didn't dare. The injury was too far beyond their limited expertise and they couldn't risk it.

 _How did it even happen?_

She almost didn't want to know. Lying motionless on the bed, Draco looked as if he were already staring death in the face. His pale skin was almost translucent and the mark on his forehead was rapidly darkening to a bruise - a reminder of what had happened in the hallway. His hollowed eyes had not opened and he had not moved. The only indication that he was still alive was the uneven, halting rise and fall of his chest and his quiet, laboured breathing. And that was not much comfort. His condition had not changed since the mysterious attack he had suffered had stopped. It had been some time now - perhaps an hour.

Initially, she had not wanted to move him. But the longer she stayed crouched over him, the louder the voices around them rose. And she could not bear to hear what they were saying.

"It's some kind of Death Eater signal, or he's been possessed or something-"

"What if he's faking it? Have you checked him?"

"We don't know what it is - what if this thing spreads? What if it's a trap?"

With every passing moment the tension grew. At first, she had hoped he would come round within a few minutes after the attack stopped. But as time crawled by, it became more and more apparent that he would not. She tried to revive him a couple of times to no avail. Spells seemed to disappear into nothing as soon as they touched him, having absolutely no effect no matter how many times she tried. And with the others standing around her, she couldn't help but feel horribly exposed. She had given herself away earlier, and she could feel their stares as a result. No one had openly asked her why she had reacted so strongly - or why she had suddenly stared calling him 'Draco' rather than Malfoy, which must have been her biggest mistake - but she knew that Ron at least felt that something was different. His eyes bore into the back of her neck as she knelt there beside Draco's motionless body, praying for some sign of life. Harry had eventually returned with the news that he had contacted Hestia, who had assured him that she was going to find help and come as soon as she could. In the meantime, all they could do was wait.

Thankfully, Ginny took charge of the situation.

"Upstairs," she said, looking from Hermione to Harry. "We should take him back to his room. In case it happens again."

She was right. They all knew that he couldn't stay lying there for the whole evening. Harry nodded in agreement and rolled up his sleeves. And, as she could have predicted, the others spoke up at once. Hannah pushed her way to the front of the group, her voice rising above the rest.

"What, you're just going to let him stay? This only makes him more dangerous-"

"If you really think you can leave him out in the street right now, unconscious, with nothing, then go ahead Hannah!" Harry replied coldly. "In fact, any of you! If that's what you want, do it. Because I won't."

The group looked at one another. Thoughts flashed back and forth, eyes broke away and directed at the floor. Draco's attack seemed to have shaken their resolve to get rid of him, and Pavarti and George looked particularly unhappy about Hannah's appeal. Harry waited a few long seconds before speaking again, this time more calmly.

"Look, obviously this is a problem. But if it matters so much, we'll add it to the memo for the next meeting with the Order. Either way, we can't just throw him out to die."

There were mumbled agreements, begrudging nods. But they still kept their distance, unwilling to get too close. Still trembling from the shock of it all, Hermione conjured a stretcher and together with Harry lifted Draco's unconscious body onto it. She was prepared to lift it when, unexpectedly, Ron darted forwards and took her place. She watched in weary surprise as the two boys made their way slowly up the stairs. And then Ginny was there, taking her arm, and together they followed.

"Any change?"

She raised her head, pulled out of her thoughts by Harry's voice. He had crossed the room to stand beside her. She couldn't help but notice that he had drawn his wand after Draco was settled on the bed and still had it to hand. Despite his apparent support, she could tell how much the situation was unnerving him. Clearly he still had reservations about Draco's allegiances. His edginess was contagious, and her skin crawled with it. She shook her head. He frowned, lowering his voice.

"Hermione, if you know anything about this..."

"I don't," she murmured.

That was the other thing that had been plaguing her. Why hadn't he mentioned it? Why had it been a secret? If something was so wrong, how could he not have trusted her to help? And yet, she knew. She knew him. And she knew the distance between them had only grown frostier since his arrival at the house. He was too proud to ask for help even at the best of times - in their current circumstances, he would have considered the idea unthinkable. The guilt was crushing. When she thought of the other day in the kitchen, when he had seemed at the brink of telling her something, when his face had been so wrecked with meaning, and yet the wall that had come up between them had just been too thick to breach. She wanted now more than ever to reach for him, to at least be holding his hand, letting him know she was there. But Harry, Ginny and Ron were still there, Ginny leaning against the wall, Ron sitting on the floor beside her. Ron had been silent since helping to lift his proclaimed nemesis onto the bed. She had felt his gaze on her a couple of times, but he hadn't broken the tense stillness in the room. Still, she could only imagine what he was thinking.

The moment had come, no matter how much she had tried to evade it. She would have to tell him. But for now, she needed answers herself.

The three of them jumped to attention as the door opened and Pavarti appeared, her face serious and drawn. To Hermione's surprise - despite her relief - behind her was a familiar face.

"Professor Slughorn!" Harry stepped forwards to meet him, his voice giddy with gratitude.

Slughorn smiled and clasped the hand offered to him. His gaze scanned the room, assessing the faces of Ron, Ginny and Hermione before coming to rest on the source of the call.

"Good evening, my dear boy. I hear there's been some commotion."

"You could say that," Ron muttered.

Slughorn moved over to the bed, his face darkening with each step. Hestia appeared in the doorway, her forever cool and calculating gaze rolling over them. It seemed to pause on Hermione, and she couldn't help but feel a flicker of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. She might have given herself away somewhat in front of the others, but Hestia was surely a more dangerous person to have lied to. There was a new intensity in Hestia's face which Hermione hadn't seen directed at herself before, and she felt like an insect being slipped under a microscope. For a moment, she thought Hestia was about to call her out into the corridor for questioning. But there were to be no confrontations today - Hestia crossed the room to stand beside Harry, watching as Slughorn peered down at Draco.

"Luckily, Slughorn here was willing to attend," she said.

"I didn't know you were a trained Healer, Professor," Ginny said.

"Well, my girl, my experience is limited," Slughorn replied. "But Miss. Jones informed me that this might be closer to the Dark Arts than traditional healing."

"Shouldn't we go straight to St. Mungo's?" Hermione cut in, looking pleadingly from Hestia to Slughorn. "I mean, you didn't see, but the... whatever it _was,_ it was really bad..."

"I did contact St. Mungo's," Hestia replied steadily, not looking up. "I believe, due to Mr. Malfoy's history, they are unlikely to jump at the chance to admit him."

Hermione was speechless. Hestia's words ran through her head once more, but she still could not make sense of them. She could see a similar reflection of shock on Harry's face - Ginny and Ron, meanwhile, simply nodded, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She was about to protest, to ask how on earth a public health service could refuse help to someone in need, when Slughorn looked up at her with a inquisitive frown.

"Yes, I must admit, I was rather surprised when Hestia informed me that you needed help with this particular patient. She said he suffered some kind of magical fit?"

"Yes."

Hermione tried to swallow the instinct to pursue the argument, resolving to focus on the issue at hand and bring the question up with Hestia later. With a worried glance at Harry, she joined Slughorn at the bedside and carefully moved Draco's shirt aside. She had unbuttoned it earlier - to Ron's stony silence - to better show the bandage.

"It's a curse, I'm sure of it," she said as Slughorn leaned closer to see.

His eyes narrowed. He retrieved his wand from his jacket and Hermione found herself stiffening nervously, found herself reaching for her wand. She felt strangely protective of him, and had to force herself to acknowledge Slughorn's wealth of experience and knowledge. Still, she wasn't sure if he would have been her first choice during a medical emergency, especially after the time Ron had been accidentally poisoned in his very office and only saved by Harry's quick thinking. Slughorn shot her a cautionary glance.

"Wand ready, Miss Granger," he instructed. "We don't know what it might do in defence."

His words were extremely disconcerting - she did not like the way he referred to an 'it'. As if whatever magical ailment Draco had landed himself with had a brain of some kind. She lifted her wand obediently, and out of the corner of her eye noticed Harry and Hestia moving nearer to the end of the bed, wands also raised warily. Slughorn lifted his wand and the bandages melted away into a couple of wisps of smoke, revealing the wound beneath.

Whatever she had pictured, it was worse. In the centre of his chest lay what looked like a large, raw mouth about the length of a pencil. Rather than a sealed, half-healed wound, which was what she had been expecting, it was gaping open, and inside the flesh was blackened and glistening wetly. Dark tendrils snaked out from it where the blood vessels had risen, and the edges were a mottled, angry red. It was as if it was fresh, but she knew for certain that he couldn't have received it within the past week. He hadn't left the house since arriving, and none of them were capable of producing a curse like this. She looked quickly up at Draco's face, but he did not seem to even register Slughorn's presence. His eyes remained firmly closed. Slughorn moved his wand slowly over the wound in a small circle, and cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Well. I think we can agree that this curse is a little beyond the everyday."

"None of the spells I tried worked," Hermione said.

"No," Slughorn murmured.

He lowered his wand, his forehead creased in foreboding concern. The pause stretched on. Hermione looked sharply at Harry, knowing that whatever she was about to hear was not going to help calm her fears. He looked back at her with similar resignation, his teeth fastened over his lower lip. Slughorn eventually sighed heavily.

"I don't think I can help."

"What?" Hermione couldn't stop herself. She felt as if the air had just been sucked out of her. "There's... There's nothing you can do?"

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you that this is extremely dark magic. If it can be cured, it depends on how and why the spell was cast. Usually you'd require the wand of the caster which, when broken, would form part of a remedy potion."

"Who could have cast it?" Harry spoke up. "A Death Eater? I've never seen anything like it."

"Not just any Death Eater could do something like this. This would have been from the highest ranks."

"Voldemort?"

The room almost shivered. Hermione wasn't sure how many more times her heart could stop in one evening. Slughorn's cheeks bloomed red and he became extremely flustered - even now that the wizard was no longer a threat, his name still instilled fear in some. Hestia, who was one of the few who had not reacted, shook her head.

"Voldemort shoots to kill when he punishes his minions. I don't think he would have bothered with something like this."

Slughorn, loosening his collar in an attempt to calm himself, nodded in agreement. He pulled off his overcoat and held it out, still frowning down at Draco. After a moment's silence, Ginny rolled her eyes and took it from him. She hung it on the back of the door. Slughorn smoothed his tartan suit as he looked around at them all, meeting their expectant glances warily. Hestia cocked her head, one eyebrow arching slowly. Slughorn cleared his throat.

"Well, I'll do what I can. I'll need a potion kit and any medical ingredients you have here."

"There's some supplies in the kitchen," said Pavarti from the doorway. "I'll bring them up."

She darted out of sight, and her footsteps faded away down the creaking stairs. Slughorn glanced at the waiting room.

"I'll try to get him conscious. Then we can start finding out exactly how this happened. And I'm afraid I'll need some space. This room is rather crowded."

Harry looked around helplessly, shrugging at Ginny and Ron. Ginny was the first to move, pulling Ron with her. His face was screwed up, as if fighting to speak, but he left with her without arguing. Slughorn looked expectantly at Hermione and Harry, and she immediately shook her head.

"I'm staying."

"Hermione, maybe..." Harry trailed off with a sigh at the look she gave him. "Alright, fine. Well, I staying too."

As always, his solidarity with her meant the world. But she had to shake her head again, despite her reluctance.

"Harry, the others will want to talk to you."

He cursed under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. But there was no avoiding it - they both knew that the he had to let the others vent to him after the chaos of that afternoon, and let them know in turn what was going on. After a moment's hesitation he moved towards the door, stowing his wand away in his pocket once more. Hestia went with him, looking back at them as she went. Again she seemed to pause as she studied Hermione, but when she spoke her words were directed at Slughorn.

"If anything happens, I'll be right downstairs. Come down and speak with us when you can."

"We won't have any trouble," Slughorn threw over his shoulder.

He was bending over Draco, holding his wrist to take his pulse while his wand moved from side to side in weaving motions. Hermione leaned forwards as Harry left the room, finally feeling able to speak more freely without Ron's eyes on her back.

"He hasn't moved or spoken in over an hour," she said, watching Slughorn's movements. "And he stopped breathing for a few minutes during the attack, so I'm not sure if..."

He nodded, allowing her to break off. "Not uncommon with something like this. You appear to be one of Mr. Malfoy's few friends."

She looked at her hands. "They don't know him like I do." She hesitated, and then reached into her pocket and drew out the small bottle Draco had dropped. She held it up for Slughorn to see. "He drank this. I think he was trying to use it to stop the attack."

Slughorn took it, running his gaze over the label. He unstoppered it and sniffed cautiously, and then set it down on the bedside table.

"That's not Nightshade."

"It's not?"

"No. Nightshade has a distinct aroma, which in this case has been artificially added," he explained, waving his wand in a small arc over the bottle.

He held it out to her to smell. Sure enough, the acrid, perfume smell had vanished. Now, the empty bottle smelled more like old alcohol. Hermione wrinkled her nose at it and turned the bottle over in her hands, examining the label once more. The features there had been perfectly imitated from a legitimate label authorised by the ministry – it even bore the same stamp as medicinal potions handed out by St. Mungos.

"So it's fake medication," she murmured. "Who do you think gave it to him?"

Slughorn shook his head ruefully. "People don't give out fake medication. They sell it."

He bent down and propped open Draco's eyelid, revealing a brief flash of the whites of his eyes, still rolled back in his head. His pause allowed Hermione to think over his words. They painted an even darker picture of what Draco had been suffering - buying fake medicine from an unreliable source while struggling to avoid becoming homeless, hiding his illness, treated like a pariah by his peers... And throughout it all she had hidden herself from him. She hadn't been brave enough to not care what Ron thought, or what the others would say behind her back, or what people would think of her. Shame curled inside her stomach like a worm.

There was a soft knock at the door, and Pavarti appeared with several wooden boxes piled in her arms. She deposited them carefully on the chest of drawers, glancing from Hermione to Slughorn, slightly breathless from the stairs.

"I think that's all we have," she said. "There's a cauldron downstairs, too, if you want...?"

"Yes, yes, we'll need that," Slughorn said brusquely, peering at the boxes. Most had glass lids, and he looked critically at the contents, shifting through them. He tutted and chose one to open, flicking through the vials, bottles and pouches within.

"We'll need a few rarer ingredients for the potion. I'll be back soon."

He Disapparated with a brief rush of air, leaving the two girls alone. Pavarti offered Hermione a hesitant smile, still lingering near the doorway.

"Well, we should probably get the cauldron. Do you think you could give me a hand with it? Only, it's rather large..."

"Oh, of course."

Hermione followed her to the door but stopped with her hand on the knob. She remained standing there, the room suddenly unbearably silent. She hesitated to leave him alone, but the sooner Slughorn was able to begin the potion, the sooner Draco would be alright. But when she peered back at him, lying so unnaturally still in that grey, quiet room, she hated the thought of leaving. He still seemed to be having difficulty breathing, soft rasps accompanying the laboured breaths that moved in and out of his lungs. His face was turned slightly towards the door, and she almost felt that if she stood there just a few seconds longer, his eyes would open and he would look up at her.

"Hermione?"

"Coming, sorry."

With a final glance over him, she tore herself away and followed Pavarti, closing the door softly behind her.

 _ **Then**_

 _ **Fourth Year**_

'You could go to St. Mungo's. Just to see what the situation is. That owl must have been flying for a while – there might be news. You could be quick – back before the hour's up."

He couldn't help staring at her. She stood there before him, her cheeks slightly flushed, holding out the small, wooden box. Her face was fiercely serious, her eyebrows pulled tightly together. Her brown eyes were almost absorbent – he wasn't sure that he had ever looked at someone like this before. She was so solemn, so earnest. Her lips pressed together as the pause drew out. He cleared his throat, trying to retain some semblance of his usual detachment.

"You're telling me to steal McGonagall's Floo Powder, pop over to St. Mungo's, and then come back before Detention is over?"

She said nothing. Her confirmation was burning in her steady gaze.

"Why the fuck would you want me to do that?"

"Because I shouldn't have read that letter," she said, her voice wobbling slightly. Her cheeks flushed red again. "And I'm sorry, so… So, I'm making it up to you."

He couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. Five minutes ago they had been nothing more than enemies trading insults. Now, somehow, she was suddenly ready to risk severely pissing off Professor McGonagall for him – something she was _never_ willing to do. He doubted Hermione Granger had ever even been shouted at in class. He reached for the box, and she handed it over at once. He flicked the brass catch and lifted the lid, took a pinch of the glittering green dust. It shimmered enticingly.

"And how do you know I'll come back?" he challenged her. "I doubt McGonagall will be best pleased at you stealing her Floo Powder. Reckon that precious Prefect badge will be off the table, don't you?"

His words clearly irritated her, but she didn't take the box back. Instead, she folded her arms and narrowed her gaze, stubborn resolution almost tangible in the air around her. She wasn't going to change her mind about helping him, and that in itself was so strange that he had to do a brief reality check.

"Well, you'd better come back, then," she said.

For the first time, he couldn't come up with something witty and sneering to say. She stared him down, unwavering, her eyes shimmering with intensity. Perhaps he could let her win for once. Holding her gaze, he took a handful of the powder, tossed it into the flames and stepped into the grate. She moved away from the fireplace as green tongues of fire leapt up. She was watching him almost nervously, self-consciously, and looked sharply away. And despite the situation, despite the letter from his father, he found himself grinning.

"St. Mungo's."

Her face vanished in a haze of colour and blurred darkness. In the brief moment before the lobby of St. Mungo's materialised in front of him, he was able to remember the heavy dread that had settled in his stomach upon reading the letter that had just arrived.

 _Draco_

 _Your mother's condition has worsened. We've had to go to St. Mungo's. I'll write when we have more news._

 _Lucius._

It was typical of his father to offer simply the bare facts and nothing more. Draco could almost hear his unfeeling, lofty voice as he went over the letter. He tried to suppress the anger that flared up in him in response and stepped out of the fire and into St. Mungo's waiting room. It was packed, even now in the middle of the day. Before he had even looked for the front desk he had seen a small child covered in orange pimples, a man reading _The Prophet_ with one arm severed and lying casually across his lap, and an old woman whose face was a mass of fine grey fur. He picked his way through the odd parade of ailments and reached the front desk, where a young witch looked up expectantly. Her gaze strayed quizzically to his Hogwarts uniform, but her suspicion remained unvoiced.

"How may I help?"

"I'm looking for Narcissa Malfoy," he said. "I'm her son."

"Is she expecting you?"

He hesitated. "Yes."

Her eyebrow twitched, but she tapped the log book siting on the desk in front of her with her wand. The pages rushed past and stopped abruptly – she nodded.

"Fourth Floor, Spell Damage. The Felicitas Ward. It's clearly signposted."

He thanked her and left before she could ask about his uniform. He took the stairs two at a time, darting around people coming the other way, glancing at his watch as he went. He didn't have long before his Detention finished and McGonagall came back – he didn't have time to be polite.

 _Spell damage._

He wondered how much his father had told the Healers about what had happened. Probably nothing, if he could help it. Draco didn't know much himself. He had received a letter from his mother a few days ago explaining some of what was going on – enough to know that she had received a strange letter that turned out to be jinxed. She had tried to tell him that it wasn't serious, but the language she had used told him otherwise. She had been too bright and positive to be convincing. There was no name on the letter, from what she said, but it was obvious that it had been some kind of warning. The question was – from who? He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to send such a thing. And it had been addressed to her, despite the fact that she had no enemies that he knew of.

He reached the fourth floor and stood there, peering at the signs and the maze of corridors. People hurried past him like a river around a stone. The flurry of movement kept him looking for a good few minutes before he caught sight of a sign nearby - the Felicitas Ward. He made for it, his heart hammering in his chest. More people were glancing curiously at him, and with a flash of paranoia he pulled off his tie, balled it up, and thrust it out of sight into his pocket. He still had the Slytherin crest on his jumper, but it was slightly less obvious now. He pushed his way through the double doors leading in to the Ward and slowed to a halt, faced with countless pale blue curtains and beds and more corridors. There was a desk with a nurse sitting at it near the door, but he even as he approached it a curtain around one of the beds pulled aside and a Healer emerged, flicking her wand to send a series of notes flying off down the corridor. And as she stepped out, Draco caught a glimpse of the bed beyond and it's occupant.

His stomach lurched and he moved forwards automatically. The Healer caught his arm as he grabbed the edge of the curtain.

"Excuse me, there are no visitors allow-"

"Draco!"

His mother sat up, her eyes stretched wide in surprise. The Healer hesitated, but then reluctantly let him go - he darted through the curtain and took the hand she held out to him. She squeezed his fingers tightly.

"Draco, what on earth are you - how did you get here?"

"Doesn't matter," he said. "A friend helped."

On any other day he would have been stunned at his own use of the word 'friend' to refer to Granger, but he was too busy assessing his mother's appearance to notice. Narcissa Malfoy was always neat, always conscious of specs of dirt on her clothes or the slightest smudges in her make up. But now her hair was loose and unbrushed, and the hospital bed dwarfed her and made her look thin and ill. The side of her face was marred with a black, glistening burn - which writhed angrily on her skin as if alive. It spread down her neck and he could see it on the back of one of her hands, too. He stared at the marks, his concern growing as they flickered. It looked painful, the skin raw and peeling, but she remained as calm and collected as ever. He reached for her uninjured hand, overcome suddenly with a mixture of protectiveness and fear. Ever since he had grown taller than her their relationship had begun to change, and he had become more aware of her fragility, particularly in contrast to his father's bullish authority. She tried to smile at him.

"The Healers say it is perfectly curable," she said, almost sternly. "No need to worry."

"But how do we know another letter won't come?" His voice had suddenly become very small, like a child lost at a fairground. He swallowed hard before continuing. "How can we be sure? Maybe you should go away for a while, to your cousins in Europe, or..."

His voice trailed off as she shifted uncomfortably, her gaze drifting down to evade him. She always had been much worse at lying than his father. He stared at her, the realisation settling over him.

"You know? You know who sent it?" And then, as her silence stretched on. "Who? Mother, tell me!"

She glanced at the curtain, and then reached for her wand on the bedside table. She flicked it at the curtains, drawing then closed, and held it with both hands as she replied. He did the very same thing when he was anxious. He watched the light flash on the diamond-studded ring on her left hand.

"Do you remember your Aunt Bellatrix?"

He did. He had never met her - she had been incarcerated when he was a baby. All he knew of her was that she had fought for Voldemort during his first war, and that she had been one of his closest allies. And, of course, that she was mad as a hatter. No one spoke about it, but his mother had the newspaper that had reported her arrest folded away in a drawer in her dressing table. He had found it once when he had been sent to fetch her some earrings, and the wild, screaming face had been burned into his memory. He frowned, looking at his mother with renewed concern.

"Her? But why would she... what would she have against you?"

"I believe it was more of a warning. I'm sure you know that your Aunt Bellatrix always cared very much about... the cause. I feel that perhaps she thought I needed some encouragement to... to remain enthusiastic."

His mother's voice was distinctly unhappy. She always packed so much into what she said, and despite the fact that she spoke little, her meaning was never unclear. But now he could tell that she was stepping around something, unwilling to bring him into the light. Her hesitations were like vast pits. Even though she was holding back, he could see the ripples of her words spreading through the air. She seemed to realise that he was staring at her and offered a small, thin smile.

"What has the cause got to do with us?" he said. "Father has friends involved in it, but that's all. Isn't it?"

Her gaze darkened considerably, and she squeezed his hand before withdrawing her own from his grip. The air had suddenly become tense, sharp, and he could sense that he had hit a raw nerve. But when she spoke, her voice was as steady and quiet as ever.

"For you, Draco, yes. That's it."

He was about to ask her to explain, but as he opened his mouth the curtain flew open and his father's stern face and long, white blonde hair came into view. Draco groaned inwardly and prepared himself for a fight as Lucius' cold, grey eyes fixed on him.

"The Healer will be back in an hour with a potion," he said to Narcissa, seemingly unfazed by his son's appearance. "After that they've asked to keep you in for another day for observation."

Draco folded his arms. His father's gaze moved to his collar, noting the lack of a tie, and then back up to his face.

"I told you it was taken care of, Draco, there is absolutely no need for hysteria."

Draco bristled, but his mother spoke first and he caught his tongue.

"There's no harm done, Lucius, I appreciate him coming."

"And I suppose Draco's teachers also appreciate it?"

Draco hesitated, and saw a tense moment flash between his parents. His father's eyes narrowed.

"We could do without further scrutiny at the moment, thank you, Draco."

"What is that supposed to mean? They won't even know I'm gone anyway."

He glanced furtively at his watch as he spoke. Well, another twenty minutes and they might. He couldn't stay much longer. He could feel his parents watching him, and his mother smiled.

"Draco has a friend, who will explain the situation."

He was left wondering who she meant, before he remembered his explanation earlier and Granger's large-toothed face leapt abruptly into his head. He shook himself, trying to shrug the image of her standing there beside the fire off. She was not a friend. He had no idea why he had used such an inane word earlier. His father made a noise in the back of his throat and stepped back, holding the curtain open.

"All the same, now that you have had your visit, perhaps we should see about returning you to school."

He wanted to argue, but his mother caught at his sleeve and shot him a look which told him to be silent. Stifling his fury, he kissed her quickly on the cheek.

"Get better soon. And... and don't answer the door for a while."

"I'm fine, Draco," she said softly. "I think the disagreement is now over."

He stared at her, trying to unpick the truth from the lines in her forehead and her tired eyes. But she simply offered him a smile, her eyes drifting up to his collar.

"Do fix that, won't you Draco? You look terribly scruffy."

He rolled his eyes and retrieved his tie from his pocket. He looped it around his neck as he shuffled towards the door, more to satisfy her than anything else. He felt her eyes on him as he left, and glanced back once more before allowing his father to shepherd him out into the ward. His last view was of her sitting there, watching him with a strange kind of sadness, her slender hands gripping her wand tightly. Then the curtain had dropped closed, and she was gone. His father took him by the arm, and he wrenched free with a scowl.

"I'm not a prisoner, you don't have to frog march me there," he muttered.

"Draco." His father snatched again for his arm, pulling him to a firm halt. "I don't want to see any more stunts like this. What happens in this family is our business - it is not for the ears of your teachers."

"Why does it matter so much?"

His father looked around. "Don't question it. We've had word that things are... are in motion. And we may be required to lend aid in the near future."

"Aid? What things?"

Lucius' eyes narrowed. He surveyed the Ward, his eyes flickering with an uncertainty which unnerved Draco. He hadn't seen his father look like that before - almost scared, as if losing control. His father was always in control. Lucius straightened slightly, as if drawing himself up to his full height.

"You had better decide if you are mature enough for what is required of you. Otherwise, you may as well stay at school."

Draco blinked at him, but his father was already turning away, fixing his gaze on the wall over Draco's shoulder. The conversation was over, and Draco knew better than to try and argue. He pulled free as Lucius tried again to grab his arm.

"Fine, fine, I'm going. I don't need you to walk me out."

His father glared at him. "Just go back to school. Now."

He turned and strode away, vanishing quickly behind the sterile blue curtain which masked his mother's bed. Draco turned to leave, but something held him back. There were too many unanswered questions, too many cryptic words being thrown around. He glanced around - the nurses in the Ward were otherwise occupied for now. No one was watching him. After a moment's hesitation, he moved silently back towards the curtain. He bent his head to listen, pretending to be examining an invisible mark on his sleeve. He could just about hear his father's lowered voice through the folds of material.

"He will do what he is asked to do and nothing more. He will have a responsibility to-"

"So you will give him our only son?" Her voice was shaking wildly. "Do you even realise what that means?"

"He will not be put in danger."

"Come off it, Lucius. We are all to suffer because of your rash mistakes."

He could imagine the look on his father's face, could almost feel his temper rising. His voice when he spoke was icily calm.

"Might I remind you, Narcissa, that the Blacks brought him into our lives. Not I."

"What you do is your business. Do not bring Draco into it."

"Do you really think he doesn't know? Do you think he hasn't heard the name Death Eater?"

Draco felt a strange rush, as if he had just gone over a hill at high speed or performed a complex loop on a broom. _Death Eater._ His parents never used the name aloud, had never explicitly explained how they were connected. Of course, from what his father dropped into conversations now and again and from the people he knew, Draco had always assumed that they had some kind of relationship. That his father had been some kind of honorary member, hanging about on the fringes of the movement. But the way his mother was talking implied that Lucius Malfoy had not only been associated with them - he had somehow become directly involved? The 'cause', as they always put it, was far closer to home than Draco had realised. He tried to focus on what his mother was saying, noting the way her voice shook with desperate resolve.

"He doesn't understand what it _means._ He admires you, he wants to be like you - but I will not let him be a part of _that,_ Lucius. I won't allow it."

"We may not have a choice."

His mother said nothing, but Draco could picture the look on her face. He could almost see them, facing stubbornly away from one another, each simmering with silent anger. He wanted to stay longer, but the Healer from earlier was returning with a potion in hand, and she frowned at him as she approached. He tore himself away from the curtain and headed away towards the stairs. His pace quickened as he realised the time - there were only fifteen minutes remaining until McGonagall would be back. If he didn't arrive in time, Granger would be in trouble.

He wasn't sure why he cared, and yet he almost ran down the stairs.

He reached the lobby and hurried across to the Floo network, dragging his tie out of his pocket as he went. As he stood beside the fireplace, looping the tie around his neck, trying to catch his breath, he was struck again by the strange circumstances of his visit. He felt utterly flooded with gratitude for the visit, and yet the person who had orchestrated it was supposed to be the person he most detested at Hogwarts. Behind Potter, at least. He glanced over his shoulder one more time, torn between going back up and telling his parents what he really thought... although he wasn't completely clear on what that was.

He had always thought of his father as an impressive man. His vague connection with the darker side of the wizarding world had always added to his gravitas and esteem in Draco's eyes, but it had always remained at a distance. And yet now that the possibility of becoming involved was more tangible, it was beginning to feel rather unwelcome. Of course it was fun to boast about his father's influence and associations at school in front of the other Slytherins, but... He thought of the Quidditch World Cup, and of the Muggles dangling upside down in the air, of the horde of hooded people. He remembered how Nott had been only too happy to join in, and how he had felt sick at the thought of doing so. He thought of how, for all their 'connections' with the hooded people marching over the campsite, his parents had spent the evening holed up in their tent. He thought of the jinx currently spreading over his mother's face. A warning, she had said. Encouragement.

 _We may not have a choice._

He realised that he had just been standing aimlessly beside the Floo network for the last five minutes, and shook himself into action. He stepped into the grate, snatching a handful of Floo powder from the bowl beside the fireplace.

"McGonagall's Office, Hogwarts."

When McGonagall's classroom came into view before him, the first thing he saw was a bushy head bent forwards over a stack of books. She looked up as he stepped out of the grate, and her face cleared with relief at the sight of him. She must have thought he was not going to come back. Their conversation in front of the fireplace felt like it had taken place years ago now. He tried to pull himself together, but couldn't find the right words to mock her as he usually would. She seemed to understand that he was not in the mood to talk, and instead watched him in silence as he returned to the desk to begin sharpening the quills once more. He felt the heat of her eyes on him, and had the wild urge to look back at her and tell her everything he had just overheard. Watch her eyes widen in horror. She would probably try to tell him what he should be doing about it. Know it all. He bent his head over his desk, deafening silence pressing in around him.

After a moment, he heard her pick up her pen and begin to scratch away at her essay once more.

 _ **Now**_

The cool moonlight painted thin, slanting rectangles across the wooden floorboards, and from her perch on the windowsill Hermione could smell the faint traces of cigarette smoke. She trailed her fingers absently along the window frame and dusted off the fragments of ash that collected on her skin, feeling an odd sense of familiarity with the tiny grey particles crushed against her thumb and forefinger. She had grown to associate that smell with him, learned to look for him whenever it brushed across her nose. She tried to picture him sitting where she was now, looking out at the cold night, tried to translate his thoughts.

The house creaked softly around her. She wasn't sure what time it was, but the others had long since gone to bed. She had barely left the room in the last few hours, and now she listened as the last footsteps downstairs died away into silence and the last bedroom door clicked shut. She didn't need to look at her watch to know that she was staying up far into the early hours. Slughorn, true to his word, had stayed and helped as much as he could. Together they had brewed a complex potion even she had struggled to keep up with and mixed together a thick poultice. With some effort, they had managed to get Draco's unconscious body to swallow the first few doses of the potion and applied the poultice to a gauze square, which now hid the ugly wound from her sight. But Slughorn was obviously uncomfortable with remaining there for long. He had claimed he had other responsibilities, and before long he had left, promising to return in the morning. Hermione volunteered to remain, only too happy to have some time alone with her thoughts. Which was how she had ended up sitting in the dark attic room with nothing to pierce the silence but Draco's unsteady, rasping breaths.

Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness as the evening light died, and now even with only the moonlight she could pick out his pale skin against the quilt covering the bed. Even from her distance she could see the dark circles around his eyes and the shuddering rise and fall of his chest. Inevitably, her eyes ran down to where the blanket covered him and she forcibly turned back towards the clouded night sky once again. She had developed a bad habit of staring at him, and it was making her heart thump hard in her chest.

Atop the chest of drawers a paper bird she had made to act as an alarm suddenly straightened up and cheeped softly. She waved her wand to silence it and rose to her feet, feeling her tired muscles protest at the hard surface she had been perched on for so long. Another two hours had passed, and it was time to check on him once again.

She approached the bed cautiously, as if expecting to be caught. Earlier, after the meeting with the rest of the house had finished, Harry and Ginny had dropped in briefly to see her. Apparently Hestia had taken charge of the situation, and her authority had overridden the complaints of the others for now. It had been decided that Draco would remain in the house at least until they learned more about his condition and what could be done. They hadn't stayed long, seemingly uncomfortable, and itching to get away. With a flick of her wand she lit the candle standing on his bedside table, which had so far been ignored. She reached the bed and looked down at him, allowing herself a few moments to drink in the sight of him. All of the tiny things she had barely noticed over the past few weeks had suddenly become all too visible, as if someone had taken a blindfold away. He had always been pale, but now his skin was tinged grey and seemed faded, like a smudged chalk painting. It reddened considerably around the area covered by the gauze, and she could make out several dark veins snaking out from the bandage. The dark, purpled blood had spotted through slightly, but when she tentatively reached out a hand the bandage was still dry. He was thinner, too, she realised. In the days when she had run her hands over him and felt him curling around her in response, she had been distinctly aware of his strength, of the lean muscles in his arms and back. Now he was skinnier.

The same could be said for his face. Again, he had always had delicate features – now, they had been viciously hollowed out by the effects of the curse. His lips were pale and dry and his face seemed to be lined with tense pain, even in sleep. His hair had lost some of its glossiness, now dishevelled from their administrations and the fit. Before she could stop herself, she sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out. Her hand hovered in the air for a few seconds, and then pushed the stray locks back into place before retreating, only to settle lightly on top of his cool, clammy fingers. To touch him, to be close enough to do so, felt like breathing a sigh of relief. She couldn't remember the last time she had been able to feel his skin against hers, to do something as intimate as fixing his hair. His fingers twitched slightly and she curled her hand around them. Strange how something as simple as holding someone's hand could make her heart ache.

She would have sat like that for longer if she had not remembered the point of her presence in the first place. Reluctantly, she let go of his hand and checked his breathing, heart rate and temperature. Then she reached for the vial that stood waiting on the bedside cabinet and popped out the stopper. She was leaning forwards, just about to try to coax him to have some, when his eyes opened and stared straight at her. A thrill of shock rushed through her and she froze, still gripping the vial. His grey eyes were bloodshot and glassy, but they were locked onto her own, and just like back at the Yule Ball they had snatched away her voice. Her parted lips trembled as she tried desperately to think of something to say. He blinked slowly, his eyebrows pulling together slightly.

"Did… Did you fly thr' the window?"

Her stomach dropped away. It took her a few long moments to compose herself, wet her lips and speak. Her voice sounded odd to her own ears.

"Yes," she said at last, not knowing what else to say. "Can you drink this?"

His gaze slid to the vial she was offering him. He moved his head in a small nod and she shuffled closer on the bed. He lifted his arm to take it but his hand was shaking violently, and she quickly wrapped her fingers around his own to hold the little glass vessel steady. She helped him to knock it back and he swallowed it with some difficulty, letting his head fall back as soon as he could. She felt his eyes on her as she placed the vial down on the bedside cabinet. She glanced at him uncertainly. His eyes still had that glassy, faraway sheen, but they were fixed on her as if she were a lifeline.

" 'Mione…"

He moved as if to sit upright but stopped with a moan, lifting his hand to his chest. She shifted forwards quickly, catching hold of his fingers before he could dislodge the gauze patch sitting there, and then, against her better judgement, let her other hand settle on his cheek. He leaned into her, settling back again, still staring at her with a strange mixture of emotion. She managed to smile at him, trying to provide some reassurance.

"Do you know where we are?"

He just looked at her. His silence was enough to tell her that he wasn't sure. She ran her fingers through his hair and down over his neck, in a strange imitation of what she had used to do when they were together. That intimacy flickered just out of reach, tauntingly close... She stood, broke the contact, stepped away.

"You're cold," she said. "I'll be right back."

She turned on the spot and Apparated downstairs, unexpected tears suddenly springing into her eyes. The room she shared with Ginny and Luna was quiet – the two girls were in bed asleep. The candle on Ginny's bedside table was still burning and a book was open on her lap where she lay propped up in bed, head to one side and mouth wide open. She usually crept away to Harry's room when it got late. Hermione had a sneaking suspicion that the other girl had been waiting up for her. Not eager to be seen in her present state of mind, she brushed her tears away quickly, picked up the duvet from her own bed, and Apparated back into Draco's room.

He was unconscious again when she reappeared. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed. She spread the extra duvet over him, pulling it up to cover his chest and shoulders, and then retreated quickly to the windowsill. The feel of his skin lingered on her hands and she hugged herself tightly in an attempt to replace him.

 _"Did you fly thr' the window?"_

Those words had sent a chill through her. She was brought back sharply to Hogwarts on a chilly day in January, when there had been no space between them at all. During those days she had craned her neck to seek out a glimpse of him every breakfast, lunch, and dinner, usually able to catch his eye for a moment across the Great Hall. On that particular day he had arrived at breakfast late, looking to be in a particularly bad mood. His face had remained tight and angry throughout breakfast – during which he had not eaten anything – and he had not returned her glances once. She had put his behaviour down to waking up on the wrong side of the bed for some reason or another, and had tried to concentrate on what Ron was saying about Jiggilypuffs. She had planned to meet with him later. Only he hadn't shown up for Potions, or Charms, and then when she, Harry and Ron returned to the Great Hall at lunch, he had not turned up. And then she had begun to grow worried. She thumbed the little green stone in her pocket but it had not grown warm, and whenever she checked it for a new message it had been blank. Any messages she sent to him were ignored. After lunch she tried to focus on Transfiguration and Muggle Studies, but she couldn't concentrate. And, finally, when their free period before dinner came, she could not wait any longer. She pretended she had work to do in the library – something Harry and Ron did not question her about – and left her friends to return to the common room without her.

She was halfway to the Slytherin common room when she realised that she could not enter without him, and without some form of disguise. She slowed to a halt as she approached the dungeons, raking her brains desperately for some excuse, some reason for turning up at the rival house's common room… But, of course, it was hopeless. She would never be let in, and even if she was, the place would be full of students and she would never reach his room. Perhaps he had taken an unexpected visit home? But no, he would have sent her a message. She chewed on her lip anxiously, contemplating going to Professor Snape in the hopes that he would check on Draco instead, but hastily dismissed the idea. She had just turned and begun to make her way back up the stairs towards Gryffindor, crestfallen, when she passed the seventh floor and was struck with hope.

She hurried to the tapestry showing Barnabas the Barmy and stood in front of the blank patch of wall, panting slightly. It was a long shot, but she could not think of any other solution. In truth, it was doubtful that there would be any magical room in the castle that would allow students to access one another's dormitories, but... She pushed the strap of her bag higher onto her shoulder and began to walk back and forth.

 _I need a way to see him. I need a way to get to him. I need a way to see him._

It felt stupid. Her requirement didn't seem to be delivered in clear enough terms for the Room to oblige, but when she opened her eyes and turned around, sure enough, the door had appeared. She headed for it, trying to imagine what possible solution the Room had come up with, and slipped inside.

She was met with an empty room.

She stood looking around for a while, trying to figure out what exactly had happened. Perhaps this was what happened when the request was too much for the Room to offer. She stepped forwards, examining every inch of the room in complete detail. It was just a simple, stone-walled rectangular room with a window at one end. A deep red rug covered the cool stone floor. Hermione crossed the room slowly, picking out the view beyond the window. It looked out onto the lake in the grounds, which made no sense as the lake was definitely nowhere near a seventh floor window. And yet, here, the rippling surface of the lake was just below the windowsill. The window itself was ajar, and Hermione pushed it fully open as she reached it. The lake lapped coolly at her feet, and she leaned out to look across it. The sun was always low in winter, and now it was dipping towards the surface of the lake, setting the water on fire with glowing red and orange.

To her left was another windowsill. And it was only then that she remembered that the Slytherin common rooms were right beside the lake.

She stepped out onto the stone ledge, holding tight to the wall, horribly aware of how slippery the stone surface was. She was also knew exactly what inhabited the lake, and she had no wish to end up spending the evening with the grindylows and mermaids and, least of all, the giant squid. She glanced over at the windowsill beside her, the only other window close enough to reach. Her shoes skidded slightly and she pressed herself against the wall, holding her breath.

She almost turned back. Only…

She forced herself to breathe deeply and evenly. And then, closing her eyes tightly, she threw herself off the windowsill.

She scrabbled for her footing as she landed, snatching wildly at the window frame she found herself in front of. Adrenaline and euphoria rolled through her at her victory, and she was even able to let out a bark of heady laughter before looking in through the window. She found herself looking into a small room dressed in Slytherin colours. Luckily, like herself, he had a Prefect room, which meant she didn't need to navigate any roommates. From her position perched on the window, she could make out a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, a desk just in front of her, and even a black marble fireplace. The room was clean, papers stacked neatly on the desk and clothes folded away in drawers rather than lying on the floor. The only things out of place were the shoes and discarded bag which lay near the door, thrown absently there. There was also a four-poster bed, on which she could make out a familiar form curled on its side.

"Alohamora."

The window clicked open and she clambered inside over the desk. The figure on the bed jerked upright at the sound of her entrance, and she was able to enjoy his wide eyed gaze as he looked from her to the lake and back again.

"Did… Did you fly through the window?"

She grinned widely. "Yes," she replied, climbing down off the desk and straightening her bag. "I did."

Her pride over her short victory was short-lived. Now that she was inside, she was able to make out Draco's pale complexion and red nose. She crossed to the bed and climbed up to kneel on it. He rolled towards her, hastily pushing his hair back into place.

"What's wrong? Where have you been?"

"M'sorry," he muttered. His voice was thick with snot. "Bloody Goyle came back from Magical Creatures after that Grindylow practise soaked. Coughing all over everyone. I'm gonna fucking kill him."

"You've got a cold?" she smiled, unable to help herself. "Don't you know how to cook up a simple Pepper-Up Potion?"

He scowled at her. "Of course I do! I was just… taking a nap."

He sniffed, coughed, heaved himself off the bed and straightened slowly. His mouth was turned downwards in almost comical despair, his forehead wrinkled. She watched as he staggered over to his desk and began to rifle through his top drawer, retrieving a small cauldron. He paused halfway through to sneeze once, twice and then a third time, groaning between each one. She couldn't help but take pity on him. She clambered off the bed, reaching out to take his arm as he rifled through his ingredients.

"Here, I'll do it. Why don't you lie down?"

"I've got it," he muttered, spluttering through another cough.

It never failed to amuse her how easily his pride could be hurt. It was one of the reasons any encounters between he and Harry and Ron always exploded so quickly – he was extremely good at dishing out the sarcasm, but pathetically bad at being on the receiving end of it. His temper was so quick to rouse that she was constantly surprised that the two of them managed to get on at all. And yet now, she found herself smiling as he shoved his supplies across the desk, dragged his sleeve across his nose, glanced with disgust at the mucus left behind.

"Ok, fine," she said coolly, planting herself back down on the bed. "I'll just do some reading."

She retrieved her bag from the floor and began to look through what homework they had been given so far. It took some effort to resist looking up at him, but she could hear him pushing things around, fumbling with the instruments, sniffing, wheezing. After a minute or so there was a quiet crash and he swore loudly – she looked up to find that he had dropped one of his vials, beetles scurrying away across the floor, and now had his head in his hands. He sighed heavily, and then finally spoke.

"Hermione?"

She met his gaze as he lifted his head. He muffled a sneeze and pushed himself away from his desk, admitting defeat.

"I've got a really bad fucking headache. And my throat hurts. And I feel like shit. And… Would you please help me?"

She felt a grin spread over her face. In a few seconds her books were back in her bag and she was beside the desk, reaching out to take his hand and pull him up to his feet.

"I have some more beetles in my kit. I'll be done in a few minutes."

He caught at her as she turned away, his arm moving around her waist. She could feel the heat radiating off him, and she held the back of her hand against his forehead.

"You're really hot."

"That's why I get so much attention," he said, with a hint of his usual smirk. "Thank you… I'd kiss you, but I don't know if I'm still contagious-"

She cut him off by lifting up onto her tip-toes and pressing her lips against his. Pleasant tingles flooded her body and she felt his other hand move through her bushy hair, cradling her head closer. For a moment, the world seemed to fall away and the only thing that was there was the two of them… and then she opened her eyes, dropped back down onto her feet.

"Go on," she said softly, giving him a gentle push towards the bed. "Won't be long."

He obediently flopped down on the bed again. After a few moments she heard him start to hum absent-mindedly under his breath, and she couldn't help but smile widely.

After she had finished the potion she had laid on the bed beside him as he sipped at it, idly picking through her homework assignments. Hours had rushed over them until she was disentangling herself from him, realising that she was fifteen minutes late for her extra class in Arthimatics and had completely missed dinner. She had climbed out through the window again, calling over her shoulder that she would contact him later. Of course, two days later she had come down with the worst flu she had ever had, and she had looked up from the nest of blankets she had made for herself in bed to see a figure crouched on her windowsill, a stack of papers under his arm.

"Got your homework, nerd."

She had smiled through her bunged up nose, coughed. "Did you fly through the window?"

 _"Did you fly thr' the window?"_

Now those days seemed a world away. She couldn't remember what it felt like to be able to smile so easily, so flippantly, to just reach for him and kiss him as if nothing could stop them. As if they would always be at Hogwarts, and the worst problems they would ever face was the potential of Harry and Ron finding out about them. Now, instead of curling up beside him on the bed to read and smile through kisses, she was perching on a cold windowsill with her knees drawn up to her chest, watching his unsteady breathing, watching his eyes move erratically beneath his lids. She wasn't sure if she preferred this or that death-still unconsciousness state he had been in so far. At least now it was easier to tell that he was still alive. Only now it was harder to pretend everything was going to be alright.

She waved her hand, resetting the paper bird to chirp in another two hours. Then she put her head on her knees and closed her eyes.

 **Thanks for reading - sorry if this chapter was a bit confusing. In hindsight, I probably should have just popped that flashback in earlier, but it didn't seem like the right time... Anywho. Reviews are very welcome.**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

If you don't know Ffion Regan's song 'Dogwood Blossom', it's worth a listen. One of my favourite songs and goes pretty well with this fic.

Thanks for taking the time to review, means a lot to know what you think.

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 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

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The sound of the door opening and the chatter of several voices woke her with a sharp jolt, and she found herself clutching her wand tightly as if expecting to be attacked. The book she had been reading the night before - a half-hearted attempt at researching whatever curse they were dealing with - was rudely dislodged from her lap and hit the floor. She felt like she had not even blinked all night, and her nerves were fried from the events of the day before. As soon as her eyes were open, she was on edge. She looked automatically towards Draco, who was as unconscious as ever, before blinking owlishly at Slughorn, Harry, Ginny and Hestia, who were filing in through the door. As she clambered up from the chair, still struggling to collect herself, Ginny wove around the others and pushed a mug of coffee into her hands. She managed a stammered thanks and the other girl shot her a quick smile. There was a look glimmering in her face which was almost suspicious, but she said nothing, and the coffee suggested that Hermione had not yet been found out.

"Up all night, Hermione?" Slughorn asked, leaning over Draco's still form. "How is our patient?"

"Only until a couple of hours ago," she replied with a yawn. "I tried to read up on the curse, but apparently magic like this isn't a popular topic among academics. And I don't know, exactly. He's gone quiet again."

"Again?"

"He woke up for a bit," she explained. She hesitated. "He didn't say much. I don't think he knew where he was or what was happening."

"What did he say?" Hestia asked.

"Just... Nothing, really," she finished lamely.

Ginny's eyes narrowed knowingly, but the others seemed to accept her words. She lowered her head to her coffee, avoiding catching the other girl's eye. Slughorn, meanwhile, had peeled back the gauze to show Hestia. The Witch's face had darkened considerably at the sight of it, and she bent forwards to better see it. The day before she had kept her distance - perhaps a conversation with Slughorn had provoked her to confirm some details for herself. Hermione craned her neck to see, and was instantly met with as grisly a sight as she had found upon first discovering the injury. If anything the black veins snaking out from it seemed to have grown larger and darker rather than disappeared, as she had expected.

"It doesn't look any different!" she said, looking from Slughorn to Harry. "I thought the potion would-"

"This kind of magic isn't quite so easy to remedy," Slughorn replied wryly. "If at all."

She fell silent, her lips pressing together. Ginny's hand came down on her shoulder and she felt a rush of gratitude for her friend's ability to read her so well. The long night and difficult morning had wrung her out, and she had to blink back tears even now at Slughorn's words. She swallowed hard before speaking again.

"So what do we do now?"

Slughorn took off his overcoat and slung it over the end of the bed. He retrieved his wand from an inside pocket of his tweed jacket, glancing at Hestia for confirmation as he spoke.

"Now the effects of the potion should allow us to wake him up. Our only course of action is to ask him what happened, and hope he knows who cursed him."

"And then?"

Slughorn looked at her, and there was something sympathetic in his face. "And then... Well, that depends."

His meaning was obvious. She forced herself up to her feet and abandoned the coffee on the chest of drawers. She felt like she should be ready for something - for what, she wasn't sure. Hestia had already drawn her own wand and remained close behind Slughorn, watching Draco with cool intent. Hermione glanced at Ginny and then Harry, who both hung back, observing silently. Ginny caught her eye and offered her a slow blink, her face unreadable. Hermione hesitated a moment longer - she knew that she had already displayed too much concern for him to pretend she didn't care, and she felt a little freer around Harry and Ginny. She knew she was simply biding time until she would have to tell them, but neither looked unfriendly. She took a deep breath and turned to face Slughorn. When she spoke she tried to sound strong.

"What can I do?"

He glanced up briefly. "Try to keep him calm. It might be a while before he's completely lucid."

She nodded and moved over to the opposite side of the bed, glancing quickly at Hestia as she went. The Auror was not looking at her, but even so she felt as if she were on trial. She watched, her heart thumping hard, as Slughorn lifted his wand and began a simple reviving spell. Instantly Draco's face clenched with pain and a muffled groan reached their ears. His hand moved, as she had grown to expect, towards his injury. Slughorn had to repeat the incantation before his eyes would shiver open, squinting blearily up at the ceiling. Her heart lurched violently and she shifted uncertainly, tearing her eyes away briefly to look at Slughorn for reassurance. Her old potions master looked just as guarded and unsure as the others. Draco's breathing hitched. When he spoke his words were hoarse and ground out between his teeth.

"Fuck..."

"Can you hear me, Mr Malfoy?" Hestia tried, breaking the anxious silence and leaning over Slughorn's shoulder.

Draco's breath caught in his throat and his eyes flickered towards the voice without seeing. His hand scrabbled first at his side, then at his pillow. She recognised the reaction all too well - she had echoed it earlier when startled awake in her chair. They were all far too quick to reach of their wands these days. Slughorn shot her a meaningful glance and she shifted forwards, trying to move into his line of sight, doing her best not to look in the direction of Harry and Ginny.

"Draco?"

He froze at once, although he still did not look at her. She felt his fingers run quickly across her hand, hesitate on the scar on her thumb, and then close tightly over her.

"Hermione."

"Yeah."

He was blinking hard, as if trying to bring her into focus. He didn't look particularly comforted. If anything, his breathing began to grow faster and shallower. Unable to keep her distance any longer, she sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for his hand. His fingers ran quickly across her hand, hesitated on the small scar on her thumb, and then close tightly over her. He was still cold, still trembling, but the contact released some of the horrible pressure that she could feel in her chest. Finally, squinting hard, his eyes fixed on her and seemed to actually see. She managed to smile encouragingly. But then, just as quickly, an expression of utter despair rolled over his face.

"Fuck," he repeated. "Fucking hell, he got you..."

"What?"

"He got you…"

His head suddenly jerked to the side, his face draining of any remaining colour it had. She followed his gaze, but could only see blank floorboards. She looked back at him to find his hand closing tight over her shoulder, trying weakly to push her away.

"Fuck. _Fuck_ …"

Without warning he flung out his hand and a tiny burst of flames sparked up from the floor, leaving a small scorched patch behind. The others flinched in surprise, even Hestia. She had forgotten they didn't know how adept he was at non-verbal magic. He let out a groan of despair.

"Fuck, Hermione, get away from it… Get out, fucking get out-"

"No, no it's alright," she said quickly as his voice rose. "I'm fine, Draco, you're with us. You remember, right?"

His face showed nothing but utter confusion. She glanced up quickly at Slughorn, looking for guidance, but he only nodded. Draco was trying desperately to even out his shallow, ragged breathing, wincing sharply every time he moved too fast. He tried to twist his neck to see who she had looked at, and his gaze fell on Harry, who was leaning against the wall just across the room, keeping tactically quiet. She saw first surprise widen his eyes, and then a slow, dawning realisation. He glanced down at the scorched patch on the floor, blinked a couple of times, and then abruptly let go of her hand. She kept it on top of his, dragging his attention back to herself.

"Draco? Hey."

He looked at her at last. He looked cornered. His lips were pressed together in sudden silence, his nostrils flaring as he desperately tried to regain control of his body. A couple of tiny pinpricks of sweat had appeared on his forehead. She smiled again, squeezed his hand.

"You know where you are?"

He nodded shortly. Slughorn cleared his throat and Draco jumped, becoming aware of first he and then Hestia.

"Can you tell us?" Slughorn said, his tone carefully polite and calm.

Draco looked at him for a long moment. She was about to nudge him when he finally spoke, barely moving his lips. His voice, although quiet, had regained some of its usual detachment and haughtiness.

"Grimmauld Place."

"Can you tell us your name?"

"Malfoy."

"And the date?"

"Wednesday 24th."

Hermione felt her stomach sink. In his mind, it was still the day before. Slughorn tutted softly, and Draco looked quickly at her for confirmation.

"Almost," she said with a smile. "It's the 25th."

He held her gaze for a moment, as if searching for a lie. Then, slowly, he turned away and fixed his gaze on the sheet instead. His hand moved away from hers and, after a moment of surprise, she quickly returned her hands to her own lap where they clenched together. He took a deep breath and, painfully slowly, levered himself into a more upright position against the pillows. She knew better than to try to help. Not in front of Harry. He managed to smother a whimper so that perhaps only her ears caught it, but his hands were trembling when he was done. He wrapped an arm around himself, covering the bandages. Slughorn approached him once more.

"Your friends informed me that you had a significant attack of some kind yesterday afternoon," he said, choosing diplomatically to ignore the way Draco sneered coldly at the word 'friends'. "This is not a new problem for you, is it?"

Draco lifted his head. His face was composed, proud, his familiar smirk playing on his lips. When he spoke it was even in his old drawling, mocking tone. Only the strain beneath his words let slip his real state.

"No. Obviously," he said, twitching a finger towards the state of his chest. "But there's nothing you can do about it, so I don't see any reason to discuss it any further."

"Not an option, I'm afraid," Slughorn said, as unfazed now as he had been in the classroom. "You've managed to find yourself in the hold of a rather serious curse."

"Yeah, no shit. What gave it away?"

"Draco..."

She couldn't finish, but her voice dented his facade slightly. He ran his tongue across his lower lip, and then reached for the glass of water on the bedside table she had brought up earlier. He barely got an inch towards it before he had to sink back, unable to hold back a rough moan, breathing heavily. She reached across him and had the glass ready when he managed to open his eyes. He took it from her silently, his arm still shaking, and took a short gulp before letting his arm drop into his lap.

"I need you to tell me everything you know about this curse, Mr. Malfoy," Slughorn said, stepping closer.

Draco's gaze ran quickly across the room to Harry and Ginny, and then to Hestia, who had so far remained silent. It was as if he was trying to pick a moment to run for it. He felt hunted, and she could see it in him as clearly as if he had written it in paint on his face. Sighing, she got up and crossed the room to the chest of drawers. After searching for a few seconds through the top drawer she found the long, black, smooth wand inside and returned to place it on the bedside table. When he looked up at her she quirked an eyebrow, as if to say 'There. Happy?' His eyes narrowed wordlessly, but she thought she could see his shoulders relax slightly.

"May I ask what exactly you propose to do, if it is not to let us help you?" Slughorn asked coolly. "Your current treatment does not appear to be working."

"Treatment?"

"This." Slughorn pulled the small, empty bottle from his pocket and waved it in the air. "It's fake, you realise."

The surprise and fury showed only for a second before being neatly swept away, like words in the sand washed out by the tide. He let out a short, dry laugh.

"Is it? Well. Not like there's a cure anyway."

"So you've researched this curse?" Hestia pressed. "You know what it is? This was a rather large omission from our little chats."

Her questions were met with silence. Slughorn folded his arms, his gaze narrowing as he looked down at his former pupil.

"You do realise you're dying, don't you Mr Malfoy?"

Her heart dropped. Of course she had known it. But this was the first time someone had said it out loud, the first time she had found the grim truth staring her in the face. She realised that her eyes were growing blurry with tears and brushed them away furiously with her fists, trying to calm herself. The short, stunned silence that had overtaken the room left nowhere for her to hide her distress. She averted her gaze from the others' and turned away, striding over to the window instead. The cool morning light had spread over London in a haze, and she found herself staring blankly at a blackbird perched on a nearby chimney top. It was preening its feathers meticulously, black beak flashing as it turned its head. She fixed her gaze on it.

"There's nothing you can do," Draco finally repeated, his voice losing the sneer at last. "I would have found out by now if there was."

"You never asked for help," Ginny put in, speaking up for the first time. "We could have helped."

He let out a short laugh. "You? And that lot? Yeah, right."

She fell silent. Hermione watched the bird pause, as if it knew it was being watched, and then abruptly take off with a clatter of wings. She watched it's dark shape draw away into the cloudy sky.

"Well, even so, I'm not ready to rule you out just yet, Mr. Malfoy," Hestia's voice sounded. "I was hoping you would still be of some use."

He snorted at that, but did not say anything. Hermione, wiping her eyes one last time, turned around to face them once more. Draco quickly looked away from her, picking at a loose thread on the blanket spread over his lap. She felt as exhausted as he looked. She leaned back against the wall, as Slughorn heaved a sigh and retrieved a small notebook from his pocket.

"So," he said, as if opening a speech. "I'll tell you what I can gather so far, and you can butt in with any further information you might have."

Draco let his head fall back, pressing his fingers against his forehead, eyes closed. His mouth quirked slightly, the only indicator of how much pain he was still in. He wasn't good at admitting defeat, and she doubted he would ask them to give him a moment to regroup. She wanted to ask Slughorn to stop and get a numbing potion, but she had a bad feeling that their ordinary remedies would not work here. Slughorn cleared his throat.

"So," he repeated. "I can infer for obvious reasons that this is an extremely old and extremely powerful curse connected with dark magic. It also appears to be getting exponentially worse. It seems to me to be similar - if not, the same spell - as an old curse commonly used on Muggles in the early ages. They used to call it the Black Spot, or put it down as a kind of Plague. Did you know that?"

Draco remained silent, but she could tell at once that he had. He always grew stiff and uncomfortable when he was caught out, when someone else's knowledge topped his own. And he had remained still, completely unaffected. His jaw was clenching hard and his thumb and forefinger were pressed into his eyelids, as if trying to force his hand through his head. His other hand lay limp on his lap, and once again she felt that urge to touch him, to hold him, to be with him. She hugged her arms about herself instead.

"It was deemed punishable by imprisonment after the formation of the Wizard's Council, although we have seen a couple of cases in the last year or so. Possibly due to Voldemort's rise to power. We've noticed it being used during the last war not only on Muggles, but also on Muggle-borns. Not often, mind you, as it's a difficult spell, not for your average run-of-the-mill thug. It's significantly slower acting when cast on magical bodies than Muggles. Did You-Know-Who cast this on you?"

"What does it matter?"

Draco's voice had grown small over the course of Slughorn's explanation and it was shaking again. He had only been awake for a few minutes but she could tell that their conversation was beginning to take its toll. She was about to speak when, suddenly, Harry pushed himself away from the wall where he had been quietly listening and spoke up.

"It wasn't him, was it?"

"What are you babbling about, Potter?"

Draco's hand finally dropped and he opened his eyes with a frown, clearly attempting to pull back his sneering mask. He failed spectacularly. Harry, however, had a strange gleam in his eye. He folded his arms resolutely.

"It was Bellatrix."

The air was suddenly electric. All Hermione could do was watch as the two stared at one another. Draco's face had suddenly become completely and utterly serious, and his eyes had narrowed. He seemed to be drawing all his remaining strength into his glare, as if trying to telepathically warn Harry off whatever he had implied.

"I saw," Harry said shortly, apparently unaffected by Draco's stare. He looked instead at Slughorn and Hestia. "At the Battle of Hogwarts."

Slughorn leaned forwards, one eyebrow raised.

"Well?" he prompted at the long pause that followed. "Would you care to share what happened with the rest of us?"

"I saw Bellatrix while we were running across the courtyard, heading for the Great Hall," Harry explained at last, speaking slowly and cautiously. "I thought she was going to attack us, but when I looked back you were duelling with her. But you must have lost, since Molly killed her eventually. I didn't even remember it until just now."

Draco's mouth twisted upwards slightly. He seemed to have relaxed – whatever he had been so wary of had apparently been resolved. "If you're telling me I lost to someone Weasley's _mum_ could duel..."

"Well, then, at least we have a name now. Unfortunately, I believe Bellatrix died in the Battle, which means her wand would have been destroyed."

"So?" Ginny frowned.

"Any information I've found about possible cures – all of which is either from dodgy sources or mostly speculative – has involved the use of the caster's wand."

There was a short, uncomfortable silence as his words sank in. Draco squinted around at them all before taking as deep a breath as he could. He pressed both hands against his forehead once more, raking his fingers through his hair.

"Told you," he muttered. "Happy now?"

"There's no reason to give up yet," Hestia said. Her voice was decisive enough to pull the conversation back towards hope. "I'll have whoever is available at the Ministry look into it. I would send you to St. Mungo's, but the hospital is… well, you'll probably be just as comfortable here." She turned abruptly, nodding briefly at Hermione, Ginny, Harry and Slughorn in turn. "I'll have to go, but I'll keep in touch."

She disappeared out of the room. Hermione stared, unable to believe she had simply gone - she had been certain that the Auror would be pulling her aside to demand to know what was going on at the earliest opportunity. Slughorn tucked his notebook back into his pocket, clearing his throat with the air of someone who had something important to announce.

"I'm going to have some more Nightshade Scorita delivered here. _Real_ Nightshade," he added. "It was tricky to get hold of, but a friend came through for me. I don't know if it'll help with the curse, but it might help the pain."

Draco just grunted. Hermione wasn't sure if he was listening anymore. His eyes were screwed shut and his breathing was becoming shallower again. She glanced at Slughorn worriedly but he only offered a short shake of his head and followed Hestia out onto the stairs. Ginny and Harry moved after him, and Hermione followed quickly, getting the distinct sense that a debrief of sorts was about to take place. She paused at the door, looking back at Draco. He hadn't moved, had barely seemed to notice them going.

"Wait there," she said softly. "I'll be right back."

He made a noise that almost sounded like a laugh. She ducked out into the tiny stairwell and hurried down after the others. They had stopped on the landing just below, and Hestia had her arms folded, looking intently at Slughorn. Hermione slowed her pace as she neared the bottom of the stairs, hovering just outside of the circle.

"... not faking it?" Hestia was saying. "You're positive?"

"My dear girl," Slughorn blustered. "It's quite impossible to fake a curse like that."

Hestia gave a short, curt nod. "And as to treatment?"

"I meant what I said - there is no cure. Not one which does not involve the maker's wand which, as we know, is out of the question. All one can do is offer the Nightshade Scorita and try to make him comfortable."

"How long does he have?" Harry asked hesitantly.

"Well, it's hard to be exact," Slughorn said, frowning. "Anything from two to four weeks?"

Hermione had never understood what people meant when they claimed that the ground opened beneath them, but now she could feel it. As if the earth was a yawning chasm beneath her, and she was falling without end, every cell of blood in her veins caught in stasis. She reached for the wall, trying to steady herself, trying to continue to listen to the conversation through the dull roaring in her ears.

"What about St. Mungo's?" Harry was saying, looking quickly around at them all.

"St. Mungo's will not accept a suspected Death Eater on their wards," Hestia replied flatly, as if reading from a book. "They consider it too dangerous for their other patients. Such cases are usually handled by the Ministry which, as you know, is currently extremely busy. As the registered Headquarters of the Order, I would be grateful if he could continue to use the room he has here while Slughorn cares-"

Slughorn cleared his throat hastily, forcing her to break off. "My dear girl, I cannot remain indefinitely - I have duties, and responsibilities, and... And I'm not a Healer, there is really very little I can do. I've arranged for more Nightshade Scorita to be delivered, but..."

He trailed off helplessly. Hestia looked at him for a long moment, allowing the pause to drag until he began to look around uncomfortably at the others. Hermione willed her to order him to remain and help, but when she eventually spoke her tone remained civil.

"Very well. Thank you for your assistance."

Slughorn looked relieved. He mumbled something about needing to be somewhere and, nodding to Ginny and Harry, hurried off towards the stairs. Hermione watched him go as if watching a life raft being snatched away from her after finding herself in the middle of the sea. Her brain wasn't working. She couldn't process any of it - it all felt like some kind of distorted nightmare. She tried to concentrate on what Harry was saying.

"But what are we supposed to do? We can't just... Just sit and wait for... I mean..."

He seemed to be having difficulty speaking too. Ginny reached for his hand, and Hestia lifted her chin.

"As I say, if he could remain here for now, I would be grateful. I think some research is in order - I'll try to find out what I can, see if there are any specialists at the Ministry who could help. In the meantime..." Hermione suddenly found herself the subject of Hestia's piercing stare. "... perhaps you could keep an eye on Mr. Malfoy? Any emergencies, I'll be an owl away."

Ginny and Harry looked up at her, and Hermione fumbled dumbly under their gazes. She was still trying to get through the mist that had descended on her in the last couple of minutes, still trying to wrap her head around what was happening. She couldn't quite do it. It was as if she had been walking down the street, and seen a car crash happen just out of the corner of her eye. To terrible to look at directly.

"Are you ok, Hermione?"

It was Ginny. She nodded quickly, ran her hand through her hair in an effort to compose herself. She knew she looked anything but composed. Her voice had shrunk into a wobbly squeak.

"Yeah. Of course, I'll watch him."

"Good," Hestia said. "Harry - I'll be in touch."

And then she turned and headed off down the stairs after Slughorn. For a moment, Hermione, Ginny and Harry stood in silence on the landing, none of them quite knowing how to break the stillness. She felt like she should be explaining herself, but her mind was a roaring blank. She couldn't have explained what had happened in the past five minutes, let alone what had happened over the past few years. And yet the uncomfortable pause seemed to demand answers, as did Harry's frown and averted gaze. She swallowed hard, wet her lips.

"I'll... I'll go check on..."

She gestured at the stairs. Harry offered a short, jerky nod. Ginny, at least, looked up at her and smiled. Despite the flickers of curiosity and suspicion, her voice was still warm.

"Shout if you need anything."

Hermione nodded and was about to retreat when Harry suddenly spoke up. His voice sounded strange - almost choked.

"Um, Hermione?"

She froze. "Yes?"

He finally looked her way. He seemed to struggle to get the words out. "I'm... I'm going to go to Hogwarts and see how the rebuilding is coming along this afternoon. Do you want to come?"

Her stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. She knew exactly what that meant. He wanted to speak to her, wanted her to explain what the hell was going on. He knew - perhaps not for sure, but he knew _something_ was happening. She automatically began to search for an excuse, but then stopped herself. She couldn't keep running forever. Sooner or later, she was going to have to tell them.

"I'm going too, Hermione," Ginny added. "It'll be fun."

She felt a little better knowing that Ginny would be there. She hesitated a moment longer, and then finally agreed.

"Right. Sure."

"Meet downstairs at two?" Ginny continued cheerfully.

Two o'clock was agreed, and Hermione climbed back up the narrow staircase, only too happy to take a couple of seconds to herself. When she reached the door of Draco's room, she forced herself to stop and focus on remaining calm, on pushing the conversation they had just had to the back of her mind. No matter what, she couldn't let him see how much the news had shaken her. She had to try to remain practical and constructive - after all, they had no time to waste if Slughorn's predictions were right. She could hear Draco's loud, unsteady breathing even as she inched the door open and slipped back into the room, trying to school her features into an encouraging smile. She tried to find some words. He was still leaning back against the pillows, his eyes clenched shut, his forehead furrowed. Suddenly, finding herself alone with him, she was once again caught speechless. There was so much that needed to be said, and yet she could not begin any of it.

Before she could even try, Draco let out a muffled groan that had her quickly returning her attention to him. She crossed to the bed in three fast strides as he curled in on himself, whimpering softly in pain, one fist pressed against his head. She summoned enough courage to touch his arm, the fear beginning to dawn on her that he was about to start screaming again.

"Draco? I'll get help–"

"N-No," he stuttered without lifting his head. His hand had clenched tightly in the blanket. "S'not that… passes…"

She hesitated, still poised to run to the door and call Slughorn back, call for help from anyone. Hestia couldn't have gotten far. His whole body had turned rigid, just as it had before the attack had struck before. And yet, just as she resolved to make for the door, he shuddered and lifted his head. His eyes were open and alive, and he gingerly leaned back again, trembling slightly. She waited for a few moments, making sure he was alright, before returning slowly to the bed. His breathing was lighter now, although his face tensed with every inhale. She sat down beside him.

"How often does that happen?"

"Dunno," he breathed. "Few times... a day… not usually… that bad…"

Hermione watched him silently. He looked beyond exhausted. His face was grey and she could see small veins criss-crossing beneath his temples and over his eyelids. He looked up at her as he finally succeeded in making his breathing a little easier. He looked defeated somehow. He had almost the same expression as when he had mocked Neville in Potions, and she had been outraged, and he had come to meet her that night like a dog with its tail between its legs. Her fingers picked at the duvet sheets.

"You angry?"

"Angry?" she blinked in confusion. "No, no I'm not angry… I know why you didn't tell me."

He waited, but once again the enormity of everything there was to say just seemed to great. Her gaze strayed to his hands, and she considered reaching for them. But she decided against it. Somehow, it felt as if that same old gulf was opening up between them again. She thought of the night before, when he had called for her without hesitation, and a wrenching sense of grief lurched through her.

"How're you feeling?"

His lips twisted humourlessly. "Fucking… Ugh."

"Should've guessed." She stood up. The inactivity was torture. She had to feel like she was doing something, that she was helping. "Get some sleep. Hopefully the Nightshade Scortia will arrive soon. Do you want anything?"

He watched her through cracked eyes. "No. What're you… going to do?"

"Nothing," she said, managing a short smile.

She Apparated to the living room, which thankfully was empty. She already had a couple of books in mind - books she had noted weeks earlier as an interesting read into ancient magic. Luckily, the Blacks had kept an extensive collection. She grabbed as many as she could carry which were even vaguely related and was back in the attic again before Draco had even begun to look away. She returned to her chair and curled her legs up beneath her, resting the books on her knees. Draco was looking at her, a weary smile playing around his lips. She set the pile of books down beside her, scanned the first few pages of the first one on the pile. But she could feel his gaze on her and eventually looked up, narrowing her eyes.

"I'm going to read," she said simply.

He huffed out a laugh. "What else?"

"There'll be a way," she said stubbornly, returning her attention to the book. "These curses just aren't researched in enough detail, that's all. There's always something to be done."

"Hermione..."

"What?"

She looked up, daring him to tell her to stop. He hesitated, taking her in quietly for a few moments. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

"Nothing. Read on."

So she redirected her gaze at the page, and he didn't challenge her again. The next time she looked up, his eyes had closed.

 **~O~**

The hours crawled on by, and her research threw up nothing but vague myths and fantastical, ancient cures which were all probably hearsay. Slughorn was right - anything that even began to touch on curses such as this was extremely limited and without much basis for evidence. She could guess that the Ministry had hoped to stop future generations from learning about it at all, and had therefore tried to scrub it out of history. The Nightshade Scorita was delivered, offering her a brief break from the books, and she stood over Draco as he sipped warily at it. But it seemed to help - shortly after having a little he rolled onto his side and promptly fell asleep. When she glanced up from her books, she was relieved to see his chest rising and falling slowly and rhythmically. She was able to feel like they were making progress.

Two o'clock rolled by all too soon, and eventually she was forced to give up her vigil and climb out of her chair. But she couldn't leave without making sure he would be alright, that they would have some form of contact, and as she stood there by the bed a hesitant memory nudged at her mind. She turned the thought over for a long time before relenting and making her way down the stairs to the room she shared with Luna and Ginny. It was, to her relief, unoccupied. She delved into the bags stored under her bed, sifting through her possessions until she came across the worn purse she had been using the year before, when they had been on the run. She had brought it with her to the house, although she made a point of not looking at it now. She listened for anyone coming up the stairs before unzipping it and unfolding the pouch section for coins. Out of the leather pocket tumbled two smooth, unremarkable pebbles. They lay waiting in her palm, slightly warm to the touch, and she was filled with the nostalgia of sneaking peeks at it in classes at Hogwarts to see what messages he had sent to her. And the despair of clawing through the snow outside their tent in the woods after that particular argument, just after Christmas... She tucked the purse back into her bag and hurried back upstairs, glancing at her watch. She was already late for meeting Harry and Ginny.

She slipped back into Draco's room as quietly as she could and stood there, the stones held tightly in her fist. She wasn't sure what he would do when he saw it, did not even know if he would want it back. But it was surely the best way for them to remain in contact, and for him to let her know if he needed help. As she looked down at him, he seemed to be sleeping peacefully. He still looked sick, but at least he wasn't in as bad a state as the night before. The Nightshade Scorita must be working. Perhaps he would not even use the stone... Steeling herself, she placed one of the pebbles down on the bedside cabinet, just beside the bottle of amber liquid. It was his pebble - she could identify them instantly by touch alone. She positioned it carefully, clearly in sight. Her mouth felt dry with anxiety. Part of her wanted to just snatch it back. But she forced herself away and, with a final look back over her shoulder, closed the door softly behind her. As she made her way down to the hall, she closed her fist around her own pebble stowed safely in her pocket. She wasn't sure what to say, so she kept it simple.

 _Just in case._

Harry and Ginny were waiting for her by the front door, wrapped up in coats, scarves and hats. The three of them Apparated just outside of Hogwarts grounds and began the long walk up to the castle. Autumn had made itself known to the world, and already her breath was beginning to pool in front of her in short puffs of cloud. A light mist had settled over the sprawling grounds and the high walls of the castle, muffling the early afternoon sunlight. Usually, they would stroll around the volunteers and architects and seek out Hagrid, chat for a while, perhaps lend a hand with what they could, and then head back. Today was different. Today, they hung back near the treeline of the Forbidden Forest, and Harry and Ginny walked slightly apart from her. Ginny had linked arms with Harry and was doing her best to maintain a light-hearted stream of conversation, but Harry's silence was difficult to cover. Hermione waited for him to speak first, nodding along to Ginny's words, her hands balled into fists in the pockets of her jacket.

Eventually it came, as she'd known it would. They had paused near the lake, and Ginny's chatter had finally run out. Hermione stood near the point where the water lapped at the pebbled shore, and she closed her hand around the pebble in her pocket. It hadn't grown hot yet, so she had to assume that all was well back at the house. She heard Harry sigh, and felt the back of her neck prickle. _Here it comes._

"Hermione... What's going on?"

She stared at the edge of the lake for a long time, watched the patterns of the sunlight through the water. She could feel Harry's burning eyes on her, and she had never felt more like a criminal. She pulled in a deep, steadying breath and turned to face him. He and Ginny wee both standing there, waiting. Harry's face was twisted with reluctance, with uncertainty. Ginny cocked her head, once again trying to help the situation.

"You've been pretty concerned about the ferret," she said, her voice light but firm. "I mean, don't get me wrong, none of us expected all this, but... but it just seems..."

She trailed off. In a giddy moment of insanity, Hermione considered leaping into the lake and taking her chances with the squid instead. She closed her eyes, tried to conquer the issue of how to approach the topic.

"I... There's a few things I've never told you," she said hesitantly. "None of you. Not because I don't trust you, but just because... because it was complicated."

Harry wet his lips. "Things to do with Malfoy? I mean, were you _friends,_ or something, or..."

She winced. Even his wildest guess was still not quite the truth. She counted to five before replying, trying to keep her voice steady. She had to try to see this as a positive thing - no more hiding. She could finally tell them everything.

"We were together at Hogwarts," she said at last, fixing her gaze on her shoes. "It started in Fourth Year, during all that mess with the Triwizard Tournament."

She paused. Her words were met with stony silence. When she finally dared to look up, she found Harry shaking his head slowly, his face a hard mask. She could tell that he was trying very hard to keep his temper, but his twitching eyebrow gave him away.

"Do you mean," he said slowly, "that when Voldemort returned - when Cedric Diggory died - you and Malfoy were... I don't know, _dating_?"

His face twisted around the word as if it was poisonous, and her stomach sank. She should have known he would never understand, no matter how much she had wished that he would.

"In a way. We were... close."

She looked quickly at Ginny, who had finally given up trying to lighten the atmosphere and who Seb face wasn't now a meld of fear and disbelief. She couldn't help but feel she was losing ground, and hurried to explain.

"Neither of us expected it. And I didn't mean for it to happen but... it just did."

"Since fourth year?" Ginny repeated. "But that was the year Voldemort came back. And Malfoy's a Death Eater."

"He's not! I mean, he is, but... but he wasn't then," she said. "He was just like us."

"Apart from the odd racist slur..."

Hermione felt like shrinking into the ground. Draco really hadn't given them many reasons to believe in him over the last few years. She cast her eyes skywards, unable to argue.

"I didn't say he wasn't a royal prat."

Harry raked both hands through his hair, clutched at his head with an odd kind of desperation. He seemed to be having trouble grasping what she was saying. She could see his anger building like water behind a dam.

"And... And when Dumbledore...?" He spat out.

She stiffened, shook her head. "No, no - he broke up with me. Well, he stopped answering my letters over the summer, and then at the start of term he..."

She found her throat closing up, felt heat in her eyes. Apparently, after all this time, it still hurt. She swallowed hard, tried to shake off the old sting.

"I didn't know what was happening. He said he couldn't risk us being found out," she muttered. "I asked him to go for help, but he said he didn't have a choice. I barely saw him for the rest of the year."

Harry was watching her, and even though that horrible look of betrayal was still lining his face, she felt like she might be getting through to him. He was listening, at least. She glanced appealingly at Ginny, whose eyes were flicking anxiously between them.

"I'm not going to try and make excuses," she said, doing her best to keep her voice level. "I know what you must think. But he's not the person you think he is. He felt like he had to do as he was told to protect his family. I... I know him."

Ginny's eyes suddenly grew large and round. "Wait, wait..."

Hermione did, her heart sinking, ready to be thrown under the bus.

"... did you two have sex?"

Whatever she had been steeling herself for, that particular question was not it. At once she felt her cheeks flooding with heat. She scrambled to speak, failed, closed her mouth tightly. Ginny's face dropped.

"Oh my god... is he good?"

"Ginny!"

She glanced at Harry, terrified, but he had been staring off at the lake, his face dark with thoughts. As she watched him he spoke suddenly, his voice slow and considerate.

"He helped us at the Manor. Was that because... Because you were in contact?"

"No."

His eyes narrowed. "Hermione - were you in contact with him while we were on the run?"

"No!" She repeated fiercely. "I wasn't - we stopped all contact after Dumbledore..."

She bit her lip. She knew better than to mention that he had broken ranks during the flight of the seven potters and saved her life. But she couldn't hide everything, and Harry was looking at her with outright suspicion. She had hoped not to tell him about their one encounter during the war, but she could see now that if she lied again, she would lose all remaining trust. She had to tell him.

"I contacted him once," she said heavily. "When you got bitten by the snake."

Harry's eyebrows leapt upwards and his face paled even further. He stared at her, utterly aghast, and she rushed to elaborate.

"I had no one else to turn to, Harry, I didn't know what to do-"

"You contacted a Death Eater when we were at our most vulnerable-"

"I had to!"

"Voldemort could have been led straight to us, it would have all been over!"

"I thought you were dying!"

She didn't realise she was shouting until the words were already in the air. She snapped her mouth closed, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs which had begun to build as soon as he raised his voice, her face crumpled with desperation. He softened slightly, and Ginny suddenly moved forwards to close the gap between them. She shot Harry a pointed look.

"What happened, Hermione?" She urged gently.

Hermione sniffed, brushed the back of her hand across her cheeks. She felt like she was in a set up for a bad joke. Good cop, bad cop. She forced her sobs away.

"I couldn't fix you," she explained quietly. "Nothing I did worked. So I contacted him, and he met me in Ollivanders. I told him what happened and he dropped everything to help us. He had an antidote to the poison."

"How did you know it wasn't a trick?" Harry said at once. "He could've spiked it with anything-"

"I know," she ground out. "But no one even knew you'd be having it, because-"

She broke off. Harry's face darkened.

"Because?"

"Because it was his. He'd used the same one when he was in the same situation. Didn't you notice the scars on his neck this morning?"

She knew they were looking at each other, faces changing like seasons as her words sank in. But she didn't want to go into any more detail - Draco would hate for that particular story to get out. Instead she pressed on.

"So he showed me how to make it, and then we..." No. Not a good idea to tell that part. "We argued. He left. And then, barely a few days later, we ended up at Malfoy Manor."

"When he saved us," Harry said slowly, as if sliding a puzzle piece into a larger picture. "That's a hell of a lot clearer now. And during the battle I was sure I saw him duelling with Bellatrix..."

He stopped, and shot her a wary glance. She returned it, open, hoping for him to say more, but instead he looked down at the ground, fiddling with his glasses. After a long, tense pause, he glanced up at her briefly.

"When did you last see him? Before all this, I mean."

"The battle," she said honestly. "I saw him briefly, we didn't speak or anything, I don't know if we even had time to look at each other. I was so scared that... But we survived - And then, after the war, I don't know what happened. I was busy with... Everything... And he never made contact, so... And then suddenly he was in the kitchen, and I just didn't know what to do or say..."

She trailed off. Harry and Ginny exchanged a short look. He turned and walked a few paces away from them, his gaze fixed on the ground, treading slow, careful paces through the mud. Ginny wasn't looking at her either, her face an unreadable storm of emotions. No comfort there. She waited, desolate, her lip trembling, certain Harry was going to come back and tell her to get her things from Grimmauld Place and leave. But he only paced, his shoulders hunched against the cool air, his arms tightly folded. After what seemed like an age he came back over to them.

"I might go for a walk," he said at last, his voice muffled.

Tears welled up in her eyes like a flood and she covered her face with both hands. Her devastation was absolute. She should have known that as soon as she told them, they would all renounce the friendship she held so important. It would never be the same, and it was all her fault. But she couldn't take it back now - the damage had been done.

"Oh for god's... Hermione, don't."

A hand rested awkwardly on her shoulder. She looked over her hands, sniffing fiercely, to see Harry's twisted face. She wished she could have kept it together, but after the lack of sleep and the news about Draco, she had no fortitude left.

"You hate me."

Harry's face immediately drained of anger. "No! Jesus, Hermione, you're my best friend. Of course I don't hate you."

"But..."

"It's just a lot to take in," he said. "It's like you've had a whole second life we never knew about."

"Why didn't you tell us?" Ginny spoke up, and for the first time, she looked hurt. "You didn't actually think we'd disown you or something, did you?"

"Because of the look you're both giving me right now," she said. "Because it was too impossible - how could I expect you to accept him? I was too scared of... of losing you."

She must have looked particularly unhappy, because Harry finally let out a small laugh and opened his arms. She hugged him back desperately, almost sick with relief. The contact let her believe that, on some level, they would always be able to move past things like this. Even though she knew their conversation would change everything, the fact that he was still willing to comfort her meant the world.

"Don't talk crazy, Hermione," he said. "We're back at Hogwarts next year for our finals - what the hell would I do without you?"

Ginny approached them, and Hermione let go of him to turn to her. The other girl finally smiled again, cocked her head to one side.

"Well, it looks like we have some catching up to do."

"You're not mad?"

Ginny frowned. "Like... yeah, a bit. I mean it's _Malfoy._ But... Oh, for god's sake, come on. No more arguing. Let's go and see Hagrid - I think some of the others are volunteering here today too. We'll go for a butterbeer. Let Harry have his walk."

She linked her arm through Hermione's and they headed off towards Hagrid's hut. Hermione glanced back over her shoulder as they went - Harry was still standing there beside the lake. He raised his hand to wave them off, and smiled - although it didn't quite reach his eyes. Still, it had gone as well as she could have hoped. She sighed, trying to feel relieved, although still extremely aware of how difficult things would be from now on. Ginny spoke up as they neared Hagrid's hut.

"Does Ron know?"

Hermione shook her head. "No."

Ginny stopped her, looking her seriously in the face. "You have to tell him Hermione."

"I know, I will. It's just..." she rubbed wearily at her eyes. "I just don't know how to begin."

Ginny seemed to accept that, although there was something hesitant about the smile she offered. Hermione glanced back at the lake once more. Harry's distant form could just be seen, making his slow way around the edge of it, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

"What now?" she muttered.

Ginny shrugged. "I don't know, invite him to dinner or something? It's all just so weird, especially after this morning..."

She trailed off, fastening her teeth over her lip, and Hermione felt that heavy, overwhelming grief growing within her once more. She sniffed fiercely, fixing her eyes on Hagrid's hut, trying to think about anything else. Ginny took her arm again.

"We'll figure it out, ok? Baby steps. Come on."

She let the other girl lead her into Hagrid's hut, let his booming voice fill her head. She sat at the table while he fussed about them and Fang pawed at her leg, took the butterbeer he offered her with a muttered thanks. Once again, she was enormously grateful for Ginny's efforts to keep the conversation going. After a while the others arrived - Ron, George, Dean, Hannah, Pavarti, Neville and Seamus - apparently they had, as Ginny had said, been volunteering at the castle. With all of them squashed into the small room, she could blend into the background well enough and let herself be swallowed up in the hubbub of chatter. She caught Ron looking at her from across the room once or twice, and resolved to keep her eyes fixed on the table.

The worst, it seemed, was still to come.

 **Filler, I know, but needs to be done. Hopefully this chapter was ok - please do review and let me know what you thought.**

 **See you next time.**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

* * *

 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

* * *

Draco woke with a start, the shadow of his nightmare still flickering at the corners of his mind as he came back to awareness. It took a couple of minutes for the events of the past day or so to come trickling back, and he grimaced at the uncomfortable memory of waking up surrounded by Potter, Ginny Weasley, Hestia Jones and Slughorn, of all people. Hermione had been there too, and he had never been more relieved to see her. He wasn't sure exactly what had happened between the sudden attack in the hallway and then, but obviously it was nothing good. His secret was out, and possibly in the most undignified way he could have imagined. And although it was almost a relief to finally stop hiding, the look on Hermione's face had been gut-wrenching. She had looked at him with utter, desolate horror. As if he had just driven a knife through her.

But she had stayed. She had sat there in the corner, reading her books, her head bent, and her company had been so tranquil that he had found himself falling asleep again. It was nice to have her back - even if he was just pretending. And yet when he opened his eyes now, she was gone.

He lifted himself gingerly onto his elbow, hissing through clenched teeth. He was alone now - although the chair she had been sitting on earlier and the pile of books were both still there. His chest and head throbbed steadily and he closed his eyes against the insistent pain. His hand sought out the bottle of new Nightshade Scortia which had been on his nightstand. Instead of brushing the bottle, his fingers closed instead around something small and smooth. It grew warm beneath his skin, and his heart lurched. He squinted at it and saw a familiar pebble lying in his palm. Even as he stared at it, small, golden letters raced across its surface.

 _Just in case._

He lay back down, still cradling the stone in both hands. She had kept them. He couldn't believe it. After their argument in the tent, after he had thrown the pebble back at her and stormed out, he had been sure she would have simply left to them somewhere in the forest. But she had kept them. Why?

The look on her face the day before appeared in his head again. He didn't dare presume that he would still hold some place in her heart, but he could just about believe that she must still care. Why keep the stone if she was done with him? He forced himself to stop thinking about it, knowing how dangerous it was to indulge in fantasy. Against his better judgement, he pressed his lips fleetingly against the pebble and then slipped it into his pocket. He reached again for the Nightshade and swallowed a little. It burned and made him cough harshly, which in turn brought dark spots swarming before his eyes, but after a few seconds the pain unexpectedly lifted a little, and he found he could breathe a little easier.

Cautiously testing the potions effects, he heaved himself upright and, millimetre by millimetre, swung his legs out and let his feet touch the floor. The movement left him feeling dizzy and sick, but the stabbing agony had receded to a somewhat bearable level. He enjoyed the sensation of his feet against the floorboards, finally grounded, finally awake.

After some time, he decided to go downstairs. The silence and lack of pain finally gave him the chance to notice the tightness in his bladder and the clamminess of his skin – he had no idea how much time had passed since he had last entered a bathroom, and his body was complaining. He dreaded the thought of walking, but it would at least give him something to do other than lie staring at the ceiling and contemplating the proximity of his inevitable death. And the house sounded remarkably quiet - he was able to hope that the others were out on some mission or other, and that he might be in with the chance of having the house to himself.

Having summoned every ounce of energy he had, he reached for the wall and pulled himself unsteadily up to his feet. The ground instantly bucked rebelliously and his knees shook – he was forced to hang onto the wall, like a drunk trying to stagger home, until the world steadied itself. Then, with small, painful steps, he began to make his way across the room. Breathing and walking at the same time had suddenly become an impossible task.

By the time he reached the door to his room, he had been forced to re-evaluate his plans. There was no way he was going to make it down the stairs on his own in such a state, unless he wanted Hermione to skip back from whatever she had gone to do to find him in a sweaty, mangled heap at the bottom of them. He already desperately wanted to sit down and take a break, but had to settle for leaning heavily against the door, hunched over in an attempt to relieve the pain that had dully flared up again in his chest. His body was almost rattling around him, like an old car about to give up the fight. He felt his limbs trembling and, forcing himself to breathe evenly, changed his mind. He held out his hand and shakily managed to summon his wand, which wobbled uncertainly through the air towards him, and then a jumper and a pair of black lounge pants from his suitcase in the corner. Then, clutching the lot to him, he screwed his eyes shut, dragged up everything he had, and Disapparated.

He blinked into being just outside the bathroom door two flights down – rather than inside, as he had been aiming – and snatched at the doorframe to avoid toppling over onto the ground. His head span wildly and for a moment he had a very real fear of fainting then and there. But, to his relief, his vision returned and he was able to haul himself into the bathroom on shaky legs and sink down onto the edge of the bath. He closed his eyes, and then instantly regretted it as his body automatically listed sideways. He kicked the door shut, locked it with a hoarse _Tergo,_ and sat there for a long few minutes until the sickness subsided and his heart stopped thundering in his ears.

Despite the slightly skewed trip, he still considered it a sort of victory. And after the horrific embarrassment of the day before, he would take what he could get. Slughorn and Hestia had seemed intent on explaining to him - in front of Potter and Hermione, no less - that he could expect to be making his funeral plans within the month. Yet, still, he had made it to the bathroom alone. He would have enjoyed proving them wrong – if anyone had been there to see. In any case, he celebrated with a ten minute respite before forcing himself to get up and climb into the shower. He had been looking forwards to the water and the heat and the steam for days, but the moment was spoiled by his irritating dizziness. He could barely afford to take his hand off the wall for more than a couple of seconds. By the time he was done he had to sit down again for a while before drying himself off and pulling on the joggers and jumper he had brought with him. He towelled off his hair, enjoying the lack of sweat and grease, and clawed his hands through it to try to get it to lie flat against his head.

And now for the journey back up.

Although he did feel somewhat hungry. And there was no more water left in his room. He hesitated, listening to the silence of the house, contemplating his options. Eventually, he sent his possessions back up to his case with a flick of his wand and made his way out of the bathroom. Even as he started on the stairs he could feel his legs growing shaky and his head beginning to pound. He clenched his teeth in frustration, stopped to rest against the wall for a moment. He could try to Apparate, but he felt weaker now than before, and the last time he had missed his target. He didn't fancy getting stuck in a wall for the rest of the day. But if he wasn't going to Apparate, that meant he would have to walk, and that didn't feel like much of an option either. A spike of pain in his chest brought darkness flickering across his vision and, accepting defeat, he sank down on the stairs and leaned his forehead against the wall. He could only wait until he felt better and then try to go on, or go back, or go _somewhere._ Preferably before the whole Order came back.

"Malfoy?"

The voice almost made him cry out in frustration. He peeled his eyes open and squinted at the legs that had come to a halt in front of him. He hadn't even heard them coming. He followed the legs upwards to a t-shirt and then a bright pink headscarf. And, with some relief, he found that the concerned brown eyes frowning down at him in fact belonged not to yet another Weasley, but rather to Pavarti Patel. She crouched down on the stairs in front of him, still looking at him with that worried frown they all seemed to wear these days – never sure if they should kick him out or offer him a cup of tea.

"Are you alright?"

He huffed shortly. "Fine. Just – taking a break."

"Oh," she said, and then glanced over her shoulder uncertainly, as if looking for back-up. She looked back at him. "Do you need help?"

"Don't bother," he said hoarsely, scowling as his chest throbbed again.

"Can you stand?"

He rolled his eyes. He could not fathom why she was still there. He had given her at least two opportunities to leave by now, and yet she insisted on hovering there awkwardly. She seemed to feel his misanthropy and straightened up, folding her arms in a manner that reminded him of Hermione's resilient stubbornness.

"Come on, I owe you one anyway, Malfoy."

He squinted up at her, caught off guard by her suddenly serious tone, and all at once was struck by a vivid memory from the Battle of Hogwarts. Since that horrible day he had done his best not to think about it at all, and yet now that he looked at her he had a sudden, clear memory of the fray, of driving Greyback away from a bloodied, massacred body on the ground. Someone who had once been a pretty young girl, and who was now only a corpse. Patel, for some reason, had been there, had been hurling spells at the feasting werewolf even as they bounced off him like pebbles. And he had drawn himself up to his full height and lunged for her, his bloody grin wide, and Draco had stared at a face that had once belonged to Lavender Brown and now belonged to death, and he had moved before he could think about it.

Killing Fenrir Greyback had been his first act after... after his world broke down. And at that point, he decided to stop remembering. He didn't want to think about the Battle.

"Well?"

He blinked, returning abruptly to the present. Her hand was outstretched, waiting. After a moment's hesitation, he reached out and took it. He clenched his teeth against the surge of pain that returned as she pulled him up to his feet, took a moment to lean against the wall. She waited uncertainly until he lifted his head.

"Ok?"

God, this was embarrassing. Struggling to retain what little pride he had left, he straightened his shoulders and reached for the wall as she took his arm. He managed a few steps before his body began to crumble once more, and to his horror she pulled his arm across her shoulders and continued without a word. He closed his eyes in despair as they made their way down towards the kitchen, stumbling like drunken contestants in a three-legged race. Apparently the humiliation of being crippled by his injury was not going to let up any time soon.

"You ok?" she asked again.

He grunted. Through his narrowed eyes he could make out the final set of stairs coming into sight – they were almost there. A fact he was inherently grateful for, since his legs were once again beginning to tremble violently. He slipped on one of the stairs and she steadied him without hesitation.

"The others are out helping at Hogwarts," she said, and he had the distinct feeling that she was trying to distract them both from his difficulties, which only made him feel more self-conscious. "I stayed behind to watch the house – they always try to keep at least one person home. Seems safer, you know?"

Another grunt. He honestly could not think of anything to say. His head was beginning to spin, which made walking all the more problematic, and his chest was throbbing steadily. He felt the flat tiles of the hall beneath his feet on the next step and was instantly hit with a heady wave of relief, which was closely followed by a stab of agony in the front of his skull.

"I didn't realise you were up," Pavarti was saying, still insisting on filling the awkward silences. "I would have offered you a cup of tea or something… couldn't you have Apparated down? I suppose not, or you would have…"

"Are we there yet?" he ground out, blinking hard in an attempt to force away the dark spots dancing before his eyes.

"Yes, we're there – here–"

She steered him sideways through a door and then directed him downwards, and he dropped heavily into the chair that bumped against his legs. He seemed to make it just in time – his head whirled dizzyingly and he pressed both thumbs into his eyes, desperately trying to force away the roaring in his ears. He couldn't help but feel he had made a mistake in venturing downstairs. His bed now felt like an impossibly distant paradise.

"Malfoy?"

"Hmm."

"Do you want some water?"

"Hmm-mm."

She seemed to understand despite his lack of coherent words and moved away towards the sink. He lowered his hands, the kitchen finally taking shape around him. It was significantly messier and rougher than the culinary space he was used to at the Manor. Dishes sat piled on the draining rack, a large vat of something steamed gently on the hob, and a half-eaten packet of Every Flavour Beans was spilling over the counter. The air smelled like potato and something vaguely meaty, and a bag of empty takeaway boxes was slouched on the floor near the bin.

He was still trying to figure out if the smell of day-old curry made him hungry or sick when a glass of water appeared in front of him, and he looked up to find Pavarti sitting down in the chair next to his. She glanced at him, offering a small, shy smile.

"Thanks," he muttered, reaching for the water.

"Do you want some tea? I think we have a few different kinds, not sure what you usually have…"

He had already gulped down half the contents of the glass before she had finished speaking. He hadn't realised how thirsty he was. He tipped back the rest of it and deposited the glass on the table, sucking in a breath. He felt instantly better, even if the pain had not quite retreated yet. He took in Pavarti's concerned stare, feeling more like an insect beneath a microscope with every passing moment. She nodded at the kettle, which sat waiting beside a low-burning fire set into one of the walls.

"Do you want me to get you some?"

"Why are you helping me?" he said at last, unable to ignore his confusion any longer. "You don't have to be so bloody… _nice."_

Her lips clamped shut and she looked away quickly. His stomach curled into a ball and he silently cursed himself. _Well done, Draco, drive away everyone who makes even the slightest effort…_ She stood up from the table, and he fully expected her to storm out of the room without looking back. But, instead, she retrieved the kettle and filled it with water from the tap before securing it on its hook above the fire. She drew her wand and gave the flames a little boost before turning back towards him, her eyes narrowed seriously.

"Because," she said, as he looked at her with raised eyebrows, "You helped me during the Battle. And I'm sorry for not standing up for you more over the last few days, and for... I can see what happened."

"You see what happened?" he repeated incredulously, sneering at her. "Well, that's more than I can say."

"You didn't have to help me," she pushed on stoically. "You could've run. But you didn't. And so I should at least return the favour." She hesitated. "War isn't always as simple as good and bad."

He stared at her for a moment before dropping his head onto his hand. The smell of whatever was bubbling in the vat pulled at him. He wasn't sure what it was, but it smelled incredible. Perhaps it was just because he hadn't eaten for so long. He tried to place his last meal, and found that he could not pin down a solid, full meal within the last few weeks. Things certainly were getting dire. He wondered what might have happened if he had managed to reach some dingy rented room somewhere. Perhaps he would be dead by now. Perhaps he would still be hanging on, gazing at the deteriorating roof with nothing but his own thoughts, too weak to move. It didn't sound all that comforting.

"What happened to your neck?"

Pavarti was folding herself into the chair beside him once more, her hands playing idly with a scrap of paper on the table. She was watching him with curious, contemplative eyes. It was strange to look at her and not see her scowling or recoiling from him. She was, apparently, one of the few people other than Hermione who could stand to be in the same room as him these days. Although there was still some trepidation in her face, she was offering him an olive branch. He turned her question over in his head, trying to decide whether to answer her or not. He didn't really enjoy talking about himself. His eyes landed on her bare right arm, and he found something else to fire back at her.

"What happened to your arm?"

She glanced down dismissively at the long scar emerging from her sleeve. "I got hit during the Battle – I think it was called _Sectumsempra._ It mostly missed me, but they didn't know how to heal it without it scarring… Still, other's have had worse."

He winced. He knew that spell all too well. The memory of its sting was accompanied by a jolting vision of Snape, of a low, sing-song incantation. Snape knew how to heal that curse without leaving a mark. He felt a sudden, deep grief well up inside him. He hadn't really had a chance to think about his old Potion's Master and fellow Death Eater since hearing of his death in the aftermath of the Battle. He'd heard somewhere that Potter was planning on holding a memorial service, but turning up had seemed out of the question.

"Your turn."

He glanced at her. She looked pointedly at his neck and he sighed. She had told him hers, after all. He lifted one hand to the raised silvery lines. He knew those marks would remain on his body for life. Nagini was not so easy to forget.

"Ever see the snake?"

Her thin, carefully angled eyebrows lifted.

"You-know-who's snake?"

He nodded grimly. "It's not all that friendly. And, once upon a time, I give it a reason to be upset."

She shuddered, and he got the feeling she wished she hadn't asked. Still, the kettle was beginning to whistle piercingly and she got up from the table, allowing them to end the conversation.

He watched her moving around the kitchen, retrieving mugs and teabags and sugar, and to his surprise found himself relaxing somewhat. He had forgotten what it was like to feel at ease in a room. So often in this place he was readying himself for a verbal attack. But Pavarti seemed genuinely kind, and there wasn't anyone else present to disrupt their hesitant companionship.

"Milk? Sugar?"

"No, thanks."

And, just as he was settling into the silence of the house, voices reached his ears and the front door clicked open. Pavarti turned, frowning, and he felt his hands clench into fists on the tabletop. He contemplated trying to Apparate – after all, he felt better after sitting down for a while – but before he could even move the kitchen door flew open. He caught sight of a mop of bright red hair and suppressed a groan.

"… isn't even that much," Weasley was saying loudly over his shoulder. "It's not like they could do anything, even if they did regroup."

"Don't underestimate them, Ron," another voice said, and Ginny Weasley appeared behind him. "They might not be on Voldemort's level, but if they joined forces they could still cause us some trouble."

Weasley was opening his mouth to reply, and might have managed it if he hadn't turned around at that moment and met Draco's gaze. They locked eyes and for a few long moments, Draco could not risk breaking the contact. He dug his nails into the table, pulling on that old sneering mask, challenging the bumbling redhead to approach him. Weasley's eyes narrowed coldly and his hand moved towards his coat. Draco instantly reached for his own pocket, slightly comforted by the feel of his wand beneath the material. But then, to his relief, three more faces came into sight as people began to push past Weasley's frozen bulk – George Weasley, the surviving twin of the bunch, Mrs. Weasley, the mother, and, to his immense relief Hermione. The sight of her filled him with thick relief, not least because he knew Weasley couldn't start an argument quite as easily in her presence. She had been speaking to Mrs. Weasley, but as she entered the room her eyes moved towards him as if drawn by a magnet, and she broke off in mid-sentence. He wanted to smile at her, but again something stopped him. When the others were there he always hesitated.

Dean, Hannah, Neville and Seamus were also filing in - it must have been the end of the day for the Hogwarts goodwill team. Although, as soon as they glanced into the kitchen and saw him, Hannah, Neville and Seamus turned and made their way upstairs instead. Pavarti, meanwhile, had leaped up from the table like a criminal. She looked around at them all, then at Draco, and then hastily at her own feet.

"Tea, anyone?"

Her offer was taken up and she hurried away to the kettle, shooting Draco a brief glance. He cupped both hands around the mug she had given him only minutes earlier, enjoyed the heat against his skin. Hermione had broken free of the group – whom were currently hovering in the doorway, as if unnerved by his presence – and hurried over to him. He leaned back gingerly, looking up at her as she tore off her hat, her piercing brown eyes searching his face.

"Dr– Hey, you're up… How're you feeling?"

He didn't miss the fact that she stopped herself from speaking his name. It stung, even if he did understand her reluctance to appear friendly with him in front of the others. He lifted one shoulder in an apathetic shrug, but as she continued to look him over uncertainly a brief, genuine smile raced over his face at her concern.

"Fine. Cleaner. Had a shower."

She cast her eyes skywards at his evasion of her meaning, and to his surprise she suddenly reached for him and let her hand rest between his shoulder blades and his neck. It was like a silent offer of compassion, an effort at making contact even with the others standing awkwardly round. Her touch sent a pleasant tingle over his skin, and he couldn't hep but take some pleasure in the way Weasley's ears instantly turned bright red as if someone had flicked a switch in his head. He grinned a little wider, feeling a little more secure now that it was obvious he had the upper hand.

"Malfoy, isn't it?"

Mrs. Weasley had put down the large rustling bag she had been carrying and was looking at him with an only slightly unconvincing smile. She looked around at her children, as if trying to round up some support, and then smoothed her coat and removed her hat from her head. Her frizzy, dark ginger hair broke free at once and she ran a hand over it as if to tame it.

"I don't think we've met properly, have we?" she said, looking him up and down.

"No," he said frostily, still keeping one eye on Weasley's red face. He was going to leave it at that, but he could practically feel the waves of anxiety coming off Hermione and he knew very well that he was outnumbered here. He sighed, trying to simply think of her as one of his father's friends he had been ordered to impress.

"I haven't been down much," he elaborated, trying to sound at least indifferent. "Although I think I remember you from the Battle – and you were in the Daily Prophet once, when you visited Egypt, weren't you?"

Mrs. Weasley's smile grew a little more genuine and her shoulders seemed to straighten slightly with a shadow of pride. Weasel, if possible, grew even more frigid and Draco had the vague recollection of mocking the very same photo once at Hogwarts.

"Yes, we were! My son Charlie is a dragon tamer."

"A cousin of mine was a dragon tamer," he responded smoothly, relaxing into the simple small talk. If he could pull it off at his father's parties, he could pull it off here. "She said it was rewarding work. Although last time I saw her, her face had been partially rearranged – they can do a lot more at St. Mungo's with magical creature burns these days, though."

"Yes," Mrs. Weasley cast her eyes skywards witheringly. "I don't know why people are drawn to such dangerous work. Why Charlie couldn't just get something from Percy at the Ministry I'll never know."

He huffed a short laugh. Mrs. Weasley looked around the room and then rolled up her sleeves and placed her hands on her hips.

"Well, then, _that_ has certainly been there for far too long," she announced, looking pointedly at the vat on the hob. "And I'm sure we could all do with a decent dinner. Who's hungry?"

And Draco couldn't help but raise his hand.

 **~O~**

When Hermione had first quietly detached herself from the relationship she and Ron had once pretended to have, Mrs. Weasley had been one of the most disappointed parties involved. Hermione remembered being taken aside a week or so after the battle in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. She had foolishly agreed to help Molly with the washing up, and no sooner had they been left alone the words came flooding out.

 _"Some things take time to work out in a relationship."_

 _"It can be done, it just takes a little effort."_

 _"You know Ron thinks so much of you, I've never seen him so besotted."_

 _"Everyone thought you were just lovely together."_

She had no choice but to grit her teeth and bear it until the washing was done and she could forge some excuse to leave. Even so, it had been gruelling. And now, as she stood beside Draco at the table, she could feel Molly's eyes going from her face to his and silently making the connection, silently wondering whether this boy, whom her sons hated with such passion, had been the one to come between the eternal romance she had watched blossom between her son and his Hogwarts sweetheart. Not only that, but all of the others had been so _sorry_ for him, so desperately sad for his loss. In her first few weeks in Grimmauld Place she had caught some of the others – notably, Brown and Abbot – sharing pitiful, romantic glances whenever she had Ron were forced to sit near each other or do something together. That was the worst of it – the fact that everyone was convinced that the two of them were meant to be. She had destroyed the golden trio, as Draco so scathingly called them, with one cold, unfeeling swoop.

Harry had probably been the only person who had seemed to understand. He never really offered his opinion on the topic – something she was eternally grateful for – but he was also the only one who had never turned to her after a couple of butterbeers and say, 'So, you and Ron, what happened there?'

She couldn't help but feel that things would currently be far less awkward if Harry were there. He would be able to diffuse the tension in a moment, draw Ron away with a comment about the latest Quidditch match or something. Instead, Ron sat at the table and glared at Draco with everything he had. Draco barely glanced at him, holding himself with the same aloof pride as always, chatting easily with Molly Weasley as she made up some soup. Hermione sat down beside him and did her best to pretend that she wasn't looking at him constantly, trying to see how he was holding himself, making out if he looked tired or not. From the stiffness in his shoulders she could infer that his chest was still painful, but he was still maintaining his mask. Which meant that he must be feeling better. He glanced at her briefly every now and again, and she felt her heart jerk every time. She felt very aware of Ginny's eyes on her, on both of them.

Molly made up some soup for them, and Hermione felt with some relief that the others seemed to be happy to sit down at the table and eat together, even with Draco amongst them. She wasn't sure how much Dean and George knew about it all, but for now they seemed content to simply shoot Draco the odd suspicious glance. And yet, just as she was beginning to enjoy the soup and relax, Ron spoke up.

"I don't see why you have to stay here anyway," he muttered over his bowl. "Your family's fucking loaded, why don't you go and recuperate in one of your ten summer houses?"

His words were relatively unexpected - they had been talking about Hogwarts and how the repairs were coming along. She felt like he had been waiting to speak for a while, the words building up like lava in a volcano. The others were still talking, although conversation faltered slightly at Ron's outburst. Hermione froze at once, but Draco barely seemed to react. He replied as calmly as ever, arching one eyebrow slowly.

"The war wasn't exactly cheap. My father used the last of it to travel to Eastern Europe."

"Europe?"

"He's going to stay with estranged family. He's not coming back."

Ron's eyes practically lit up. "So your parents ran away. Couldn't handle the guilt, eh?"

Draco stirred his soup slowly. His face remained calm, unaffected. "You could say that."

"Though I suppose they never were ones for the hard life. Can't imagine your mum volunteering at Hogwarts."

Hermione had the horrible feeling that she was watching a storm descend. Draco's hands hand closed into fists on the table and his teeth clenched tightly. His eyes looked as though they were about to set on fire. She was waiting for the explosion, for him to let loose some crude, harsh insult, but instead there were only two, short, cold words that left his mouth.

"She's dead."

Ron's mouth dropped open. He looked at Hermione, as if for proof, but she couldn't speak. She stared at Draco's frozen face, hoping against hope that it was just some kind of sick joke.

"Dead?" Ron repeated shakily, looking around the table for support. "But..."

"The Dark Lo-" Draco bit off the words, smirking humourlessly at the force of habit, "Voldemort -killed her at Hogwarts. Would you like to know why?"

Ron shook his head. His ears were bright red despite his white face, and his hands were fiddling nervously with his spoon. Draco continued, still in that hard, dead tone that sent chills down her spine.

"He killed her," he continued, speaking slowly and clearly, "because she lied and told him Potter was dead. And then, when they came to Hogwarts to finish the fight, he wasn't dead. So he killed her."

Molly Weasley's hand was clapped over her mouth, her eyes wide and tremulous. George's teeth had clamped down on his bottom lip. Ron was still watching his own hands, as if scared to speak, his fork trembling in his grip. Ginny was the first to speak.

"I didn't... We didn't know. I didn't see her body in the Hall-"

"There wasn't a body," Draco cut across her coldly.

He stopped sharply, and something in his face twisted. It was like watching his body trying to mourn, despite the fact his brain was relentlessly holding it in check. And then the struggle was gone from sight and his icy gaze was fixed on Ron once more.

"Now," he said, his voice dangerously soft, "what were you saying about my family?"

Ron just shook his head wordlessly. Hermione reached for Draco's hand where it lay on the tabletop, but it was like trying to comfort a rock. His skin was cold and immobile beneath her grip. After a pause he withdrew it and rose slowly to his feet, leaning heavily on the table. Hermione made to rise with him but he shrugged off her hands, his face dark, his body stiff to her attempts to help.

"Wait, don't..."

He retrieved a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his joggers and then, after feeling his pockets, looked at her.

"What?"

She hesitated, but then sat down again slowly, unwilling to challenge him further. He turned away without another word. He moved gingerly across the kitchen, sneering at Ron as the other boy ducked his head to avoid eye contact, and then vanished into the hallway. She heard the front door open and shut.

As she sat down again, feeling defeated, Molly lowered her hands at last.  
"Ronald Weasley!" She hissed.

"How was I supposed to know?" He snapped back. He turned on Hermione, the redness flooding back into his face. "Jesus, why didn't anyone say?"

She shook her head helplessly. "I didn't know."

She watched the door, and the gaping silence left behind him screamed in her ears.

 **~O~**

He made it out of the front door and into the open air before his anger reached breaking point, and he delivered a hard kick to the potted plant which stood beside the door. It tumbled down the steps, smashed loudly, and sent a small explosion of soil across the pavement. He would have stamped on it again out of spite, but the rush upstairs had made his head spin and he was forced to lean against the wall. But his head still hurt and now his chest was beginning to throb, and with a groan of frustration he lowered himself down to sit on the top step. He fumbled for the pack of cigarettes, drew one out, put it between his teeth and lifted his wand. A short plume of fire burst from its tip – without much encouragement, due to his mood – and the end of his cigarette glowed softly. The first few puffs calmed him. He was forced to focus on his breathing more, and the whole process made him relax a little.

He leaned forwards, his elbows on his knees, scrubbing a hand through his damp hair and over the back of his neck. He was so tired of going over it all. It probably wouldn't even be the last time he was expected to explain himself and his family. He managed to feel some kind of savage joy that Weasley had picked that topic to get at him, tried to enjoy the way it had spectacularly backfired, but the conversation had stirred up everything weeks of firewhiskey and dreamless sleep potion had managed to put to rest. That was where most of his own money had gone after the war. He didn't care. It had been worth it just to stop himself from thinking for a few dizzying hours.

"God, fuck this."

He hadn't meant to speak aloud, and his own trembling voice stopped him short. The cigarette shook slightly between his fingers, ash tumbling from the end and landing on his leg – he brushed it off. His eyes fixed on the park across the road, the high black iron fence, the tall trees inside. He had always been filled with tranquillity when looking out of his bedroom window back at the Manor, always calmed by the softly rippling leaves. It didn't seem to work now. He felt as if a thin mist had descended over his vision, like watching the world through a plastic sheet. As he took another long drag on the cigarette, a sharp pang leaping through his chest.

"Ron's a prat. And famously incapable of apologies of any kind."

He glanced up in surprise as Hermione sat down on the top step beside him, offering him a wry smile. She pushed her hair back and it sprang up at once, refusing to stay put, and wonderfully familiar.

"But I've got a plan – we'll catch a couple of tarantulas and stick them in his bed. That might make you feel better."

And just like that, the anger was draining away and he could feel a smile rushing over his face. He tried not too look too happy about it and held his cigarette between his lips, arching one eyebrow at her.

"I don't believe you'd go through with that. Not for a second."

"I'd do it," she insisted, lifting her chin definitely. "For me more than for you, anyway."

"Selfish."

She smirked and elbowed him gently in the ribs. He flicked the cigarette away, wrapping one arm around his middle. He still felt oddly nauseous. He wasn't quite sure where the odd feeling had come from, but it was steadily building. He swallowed hard.

"I'm sorry, though," she said, her voice taking on a more serious edge. "I know it's… difficult. I wish I could make them understand. But there's so much to explain and… and they just don't get what happened, or who you are, or…"

She trailed off with a shrug, waving a hand helplessly in an effort to complete the sentence. He nudged her back, happy to have her there beside him, defending him, taking his side against the others. He always felt stronger when she was on his side. When it felt like it was just them in a bubble, shielded from everything else. She suddenly reached for his hand, as she had in the kitchen, and this time she let her fingers close over his.

"And I'm sorry about your mother."

The words sent a strange, reflexive ripple through him, and he realised that no one had said that to him before. He and his father had shared in the grief together in a dysfunctional, silent, lonely way. And when he had gone there had been nobody who had even known her left. He remembered standing there on the grounds of Hogwarts, his father at his side, knowing that there was nothing that could ever be said that would fix it.

"Me too," he murmured.

His stomach jerked again. Bad enough to make him realise that it wasn't just the situation that was making him feel ill. He flicked his cigarette away, pinched the bridge of his nose. His pounding head wasn't particularly helping. Her hand squeezed his.

"Did you have a funeral?"

He swallowed through the bile rising in his throat. "Uh… no…"

"Maybe we could do something," she suggested gently. "We could go to Hogwarts – they've made a memorial in the grounds. We could put down some flowers."

"Yeah…" he nodded. "Yeah, that'd be good."

He could see it clearly in his head – walking hand in hand with Hermione across the grounds to the memorial, some huge stone monument, and laying something down. White flowers. Lilies, maybe. Something pure. His mother would never have a gravestone, but maybe the memorial would be some kind of replacement.

A sudden rush of sickness came at him and he shifted away from her a little, wincing as his stomach clenched tightly.

"What is it?"

He shook his head unconvincingly, but another wave came over him and he knew abruptly and completely that he was about to be sick. He forced himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily, hoping he had long enough to reach one of the toilets.

"Draco? Are you alright?"

"Yep." And then a definite, forceful retch lurched through him, and he couldn't pretend anymore. "Ah, _fuck…"_

There wasn't time to run to one of the toilets. Instead he summoned up everything he had and Apparated, picturing the same bathroom he had showered in that morning. The cold tiles came into contact with his feet and he staggered to the toilet just before the sickness took him over. He dropped to his knees beside the toilet and held onto the rim while everything he had eaten in the last few hours rushed back up through his throat. His throat burned with acid from his stomach and his eyes watered – he screwed them shut and tried to tear himself away from it.

The horrible, wrenching jerks were beginning to subside, and he let his forehead drop against his clammy forearm over the toilet bowl. He didn't really want to think too hard about how dirty this bathroom was, being used by so many people at once, nor what he may be currently sticking his head in. He didn't really have the energy anyway. The taste of bile and coppery blood swam on the surface of his tongue and he spat helplessly into the bowl, the mere texture enough to make him feel like throwing up again. With one last ugly retch it was finally over. His whole body trembled violently, and even though he knew he should get up and flush the toilet, he could not move. The toilet itself was the only thing keeping him upright.

Her hand was still on his back, moving in small circles.

"Draco?"

He managed a small grunt. His voice had shrivelled into nothingness and exhaustion had commandeered his body. He could feel that heavy darkness swarming in on him – if he wasn't careful, he would pass out then and there. He couldn't give Weasley the satisfaction.

"Draco?" Her breath whispered against his ear, raising a ripple of goosebumps despite the situation.

He couldn't even answer this time. He tried to speak but the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl and the hard floor against his knees were slipping away. He felt as if someone had attached a balloon to his head and it was pulling him up and away into blank space… And then, suddenly, he really was moving. Her hands had moved around his chest and were pulling him away from the toilet, manoeuvring him carefully backwards until he slumped against her. The softness of her hair and clear fragrance of her smell surrounded him and he let his head fall back against her shoulder with a sigh of relief. She moved slightly behind him and he was dimly aware of the toilet flushing before something soft and dry came up against his face.

"It's ok," she whispered, her voice slightly higher than usual. "It's over now."

"Hmm," he managed.

He let her wipe his face, wincing at the indignity of her scraping bile off his chin. But even so she was so careful over him, so gentle, that he could almost enjoy it. It was like she thought she was dabbing at a mark on an ancient oil painting, desperate not to smudge the paint. He couldn't even remember the last time someone had been so tender with him. Maybe the last time they had slept together in his Prefect dorm in Hogwarts, before the summer holidays before his mission. It had never really felt the same after that, forever framed by the war and by fear and mistrust. Those days felt like a lifetime away now. The threat of the war had not even seemed possible then. He felt so much older now, even though only a couple of years had passed. He had done enough in those few years to burn through a thousand lifetimes.

He realised suddenly that his head had rolled to the side on her shoulder and sharply flinched his eyes open. Her arms were wrapped tightly around him, keeping him steady. For a moment he wasn't quite sure what had happened or where they were – his mouth felt furry and dank and his head was throbbing dully like a light in the fog. She leaned forwards slightly, resting her cheek against his.

"How are you feeling?"

He cleared his throat, winced, swallowed. "Better, I think," he said. His throat was raw from the violent hurls and his voice had been reduced to a rasp. "How long was I out?"

"About ten minutes."

He winced – he hadn't even noticed the time go by. It had felt more like ten seconds. He tried to sit up and his head swirled dizzyingly. The floor rushed at him before an arm wrapped around him, held him.

"Draco?"

Her voice was wobbling. He knew he was scaring her. He wished he could sit up and tell her he was fine, but he couldn't form the words. He felt so exhausted, as if he had just run the length of the Forbidden Forest. He felt his eyes close. It was so impossible to communicate anything to her – his tongue was like a lump of lead.

" 'Mione…"

"We'll go back upstairs," she said, in what she seemed to think was an authoritative voice. "Ready?"

He tried to answer, but his voice came out as a croak. He nodded instead, humiliated by his overwhelming inability to move or think. She seemed to understand. She put her arms around him, hugging him to her chest, and they lurched backwards through blackness until the hard wooden floor of his room touched their feet. Darkness was spattering across his vision – even as he tried to take his own weight his knees buckled. She was already holding tightly onto him, and they must have been close to the bed – she pulled him backwards and helped him drop down onto the mattress.

"Draco?"

She pulled the covers back and he felt them settling over him before she moulded her body around his, lying down behind him. He was already curled in on himself, his stomach aching violently, but he felt her arms come over him and her legs slot in behind his.

"Draco? Draco, can you hear me?"

God, his head hurt. He wanted nothing more than to just fall into the emptiness of sleep and never get up. But he could tell from her voice and her shaking hand on his that she was worried about him. He couldn't go to sleep yet.

"Draco?"

"Y'h," he grunted.

"You ok?"

"Mm."

Her fingertips skated over his forehead. "This is really bad, isn't it?"

He tried to laugh and ended up whimpering instead, jolts of pain coming at him from all angles. His head hurt; his stomach hurt; his chest always fucking hurt. He didn't even want to breathe because it would hurt. He huffed slightly instead.

"S'not great."

"It's ok. You can go to sleep."

He was already halfway there. He couldn't feel the bed or the pillow. He was aware of her hand, of her touch on his cheek, his neck, his arm. The fact that she was there made it easier for him to drop away into the place where everything stopped hurting. He fell asleep with the soft heat of her breath on his shoulder.

 **~O~**

A quiet knock at the door jolted her out of the daze she had slipped in to. She was still holding onto him, and for the last hour or so she had done nothing but listen to his soft, shallow breaths as he slept. They lay there in an odd sense of anticipation, somewhere on the borderline between calm and fear. Sitting around the table downstairs it had been easy to pretend that there was nothing wrong with him. But flushing blood-streaked vomit away down the toilet whilst holding his limp body upright with her other arm made it harder to think that. She disentangled herself carefully from him and slid off the bed. The knock came again as she crossed the room and she cast a glance over her shoulder before opening it, making sure he was undisturbed. His eyes were still closed, large dark circles beneath his eyes. She opened the door, just wide enough to look out.

Harry was waiting in the corridor outside, his hand lifted, about to knock again. He offered her a smile as she peered out.

"Hey. The others said you might be up here. Your soup's still downstairs – Molly's keeping it warm for you." His green eyes flitted over her face searchingly, and then looked past her into the room. "Ron was asking where you'd gone. Just thought I'd see how you guys are…"

She put a finger to her lips and opened the door to step out. Before closing it she pulled out her wand and waved it at the stack of books standing on the windowsill she had been sifting through. One jumped free of the pile and flew into her hand, and she waited a moment to make sure the precariously wobbling tower wasn't about to tumble before closing the door softly. Harry leaned back against the opposite wall in the small, dusty corridor, watching her with a small, concerned smile as she flicked through the book.

"What happened?"

"He was sick," she explained quietly, still rifling through the old pages. "Like, _really_ sick. Right after he ate. And I was thinking just now – I should've realised, but I read so much last night, and you can't even really tell what's reliable and what's not…"

"Thinking what?"

She reached the page and drank in the cramped words, a dawning sense of dread curling in her stomach. She could almost feel herself deflate. She had been so desperate to be wrong. She turned the book around so Harry could see, and he frowned at it through his glasses.

"What?"

"A common side effect of this curse is an inability to eat. It's supposed to be another reason why it was so effective."

"So what, he can't eat anything? We could get some kind of potion, I'm sure there'll be something–"

She fought to speak through the rising lump in her throat. "Spells and potions won't work on this. We've tried before."

Harry fell silent. She closed the book with a snap and dropped her hand. Harry folded his arms with a sigh, the hopelessness growing in the silence between them.

"He hasn't eaten properly for god knows how long," she muttered. "If he has another attack in this state he's not going to be able to recover from it. I just…"

She knew he was trying to think of something encouraging to say, but he wasn't naïve enough to try to comfort her with clichés and vague positivity. Instead, after scrambling for a while, he pushed away from the wall and came to stand beside her instead, stretching out an arm to wrap around her shoulders. She appreciated his decision not to placate her with empty words.

"Do you think Slughorn would know how to help?"

"He said himself – there's no cure in the magical world. And he doesn't want us to contact him, he made that clear enough," she said bitterly. "And St. Mungo's is as good as closed to us. There's nothing that can…"

She stopped suddenly as a light flickered on in her head. The magical world was giving them nothing, that was true. But in all the stress she had neglected the other side of the coin, the world she herself came from. Because Muggles went into hospitals all the time, went into controlled comas and onto life support machines, and were somehow kept alive. As long as it wasn't a machine – there was always the danger that it would stop working when magic was thrown into the mix. Harry squeezed her shoulder.

"I know that face. You're plotting something, aren't you?"

"It might not…" she hesitated, wet her lips. "Can I borrow your invisibility cloak?"

"Borrow the cloak?" his eyebrows leapt upwards. "What makes you think I'd let you go off alone?"

She felt a smile finally crossing her face. "I thought you'd have work to do here?"

That old mischievous grin came into view, and for a moment they could have been back at Hogwarts, sneaking out after hours for some reason or another. He shrugged, casting a quick glance down the stairs. "Yeah, I do. So we should probably get going now, before anyone spots us."

"So... So does that mean you're ok with this?"

Harry's smile widened and his shoulders lifted in a heavy sigh. "I have no idea, Hermione. This is the weirdest thing that could have ever happened. But... But I trust you. And you're my friend. So let's go get the cloak."

And, as she followed him downstairs, she had never felt so grateful.

 **Don't worry - the Hermione-Ron confrontation is on the way. For the now, thanks for reviewing and please do feel free to continue to do so.**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

 **Sorry it's late - life took over, as it does. This chapter contains blood and violence, so not for the faint of heart.**

* * *

 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

* * *

"Draco? Draco, wake up."

Hermione's voice tugged at him and he opened his eyes, blinking owlishly. After a moment of confusion, he recognised his surroundings as the attic room at Grimmauld Place, and remembered his ungraceful return there the night before. His stomach clenched unpleasantly at the memory of retching into the toilet and a light tremor ran through him. He still felt sick, although not as bad as before. Some time must have passed - the light entering the room suggested that it was the following morning. He must have slept the night through without nightmares for once, which was a rare occurrence in itself. His attention was drawn to the person who had woken him - Hermione was there, still wearing the same clothes she had been in the day before, crouched down with her elbows resting on the bed. She looked weary to the core, her hair dishevelled and her eyes red, but when he made eye contact with her she managed a small smile.

"Morning."

It was still strange to see her there beside him, looking at him with warmth and encouragement, after their initial hostility. His eyes strayed to the armchair she had conjured the night before and he wondered if she had stayed with him all night again. Considering how tired she looked, he would hazard a guess that she had.

He started to sit up, and stopped sharply when a pulling sensation drew his attention to his arm. He peered down at the strange plastic string that seemed to have been stuck on to his inner elbow, blinking at it in confusion. Hermione had reached out to stop him, smoothing some kind of opaque white tape back down over the tube with great care, as if reattaching wings to a butterfly. He followed the odd, thin tube to the point where it attached to a plastic bag filled with clear liquid, which dangled from a metal stand nearby. Draco stared at it, completely bewildered.

"Don't move too fast," Hermione warned, her hands coming down to rest on his shoulders. "I don't want it to come loose."

He let her guide him slowly upright, his eyebrows climbing higher with every passing second. Eventually he was able to splutter out a couple of words.

"What the _hell_ is-"

"It's an IV," she said promptly. "I think it stands for intravenous."

His blank expression must have prompted her to explain, as she reached out and tilted his arm slightly to allow him a better view. What looked like a needle had been inserted under his skin.

"You know how you were sick yesterday? I think it's because the curse is going to stop you from eating. But it's ok, because this is going to give you everything you need."

It was rather a lot of information to take in at once. His stomach coiled painfully and he remembered the night before, and ruefully concluded that she must be right. His appetite had been terrible for days, but clearly the curse must have reached another level. He didn't much fancy starving slowly to death in this little attic. But Hermione seemed to have miraculously found some kind of medicine, although as he looked at the plastic bag and tube again he didn't feel all that comforted. It didn't look magical, it was too static, too crudely fashioned. He frowned.

"Is this from St. Mungo's?"

"No, it's a muggle invention."

"Muggle-?"

"The curse blocks magic. This isn't magic."

" _Muggle?_ "

She shot him a warning glare, amplified by the tiredness hovering over her. "Draco, if you start giving me crap for this I swear I'll -"

He held up his other hand, relenting, still examining the tube at the point where it attached to his skin. It seemed to narrow to a fine metal point which, if he was correct, was inserted directly into his bloodstream. He couldn't help but feel like a victim of medieval instruments of torture, and lifted his gaze to her uncertainly.

"How does it work?"

"It's just gravity. It's feeding a solution of nutrients into your system - just like eating, but no physical food. No magic, no electronics, no problems." She shot him a smirk. "And it seems to be working, so you're not allowed to make fun of it."

"Did you put this in? Do all muggles know how to work this shit?" The area around the point where it entered his skin was slightly bruised, but it didn't really hurt. He thought he could make out a couple of red pin-pricks where previous attempts at inserting it might have failed. Hermione cleared her throat.

"I, um, Googled it."

"What's Googled?"

"Nothing."

He did, in fact, feel a little better. He knew that if he so much as smelled food again anytime soon his stomach would be turning to acid, but for now his eternal headache was little more than dull ache in his temples and his chest was only throbbing slightly. Hermione's muggle medicine must have something to it after all. Now that he could see it, he could just about remember flinching awake at some point the night before, hazy and half-asleep, firm hands holding him down, a sharp scratch in his arm... He must have fallen asleep again before he had even really registered it all. He frowned at the strange contraption.

"Where did you get it?"

She looked suddenly guilty and cleared her throat, mumbling her answer. "Um, the hospital... They have loads of them, so I was kind of hoping they wouldn't miss it, but..."

"You _stole_ it?"

He found himself grinning widely at the way her face flushed red.

"No! No, I... I borrowed it," she said lamely. "It was all I could think of."

"Stealing from a hospital," he said, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Hermione, how you've changed."

"Don't," she scolded, rolling her eyes.

She stretched wearily. She looked exhausted - as if she had been on her feet for weeks. He couldn't help but feel responsible. She was trying so hard to find some way to help him - it wasn't like Hermione to spend her evenings stealing from local hospitals. Whenever she looked at him he could see quiet panic lurking behind her eyes, a fierce desperation to do something, to fix him. But she had remained stubbornly silent about the one thing they needed to talk about, and he was beginning to see the damage it was doing.

"I was hoping you'd have some water, or maybe some tea? It's been a while since you had anything."

"Hermione..." he hesitated. "Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for the help. I appreciate it, but you do realise... I mean, Slughorn said-"

"Slughorn's an idiot," she said sharply, her voice suddenly cold. "And he's not a Healer, he's our old school teacher. I'm not taking his word for anything."

"I know you don't want to hear it, but..." he trailed off, the words slowed by his frustration. She was refusing to look at him, glaring at the floor, which was making it incredibly difficult to express himself. Throwing caution to the winds, he finally sighed and reached for her, brushing her wrist with his fingertips. "Hermione, look at me."

She looked up slowly, and he let his fingers linger against hers for a second longer before dropping his hand. The contact brought a rush of familiarity and intimacy through him, something he hadn't felt in a long time. She had seemed more willing to initiate contact with him over the last couple of days, but he was still hesitant to just reach out and take her hand. There was still so much left unsaid. He tried to pick his words.

"I can feel it. Every day that passes, it gets worse. And it's not just Slughorn - every source I've found points to one end."

Her mouth had formed a hard line which trembled slightly as she looked at him. Her shoulders were stiff, hunched, as if trying to hide from him. She folded her arms.

"Why are you saying this?"

"Because I need you to understand that you can't help. It's not your fault - it's just how things have turned out."

"How can you say that?" she hissed,. He realised with a jolt that there were tears springing to her eyes. "How can you just... just sit there and... and tell me not to care that you're _dying?"_

"I'm just saying you need to accept that it's happening. You shouldn't be sitting up all night looking for cures and stealing medicine for me. It's... It's already over."

Her tearful gaze grew suddenly hot with anger, and she lifted her chin defiantly. His heart sank - he should have known better than to try to change her mind. She was incredibly stubborn, almost more so than himself. She took a step closer to the bed, her whole body taught with resolve, her determination pouring out of her face like sunlight.

"No. It's not."

"Hermione..." he closed his eyes briefly in frustration. "What good does it do to draw things out? Why would you put yourself through it?"

"Because I'm not giving up on you," she said at once. "I can't just let go like... like..."

She shut her mouth abruptly, breathing hard through her nose as if she had been running, and he stared back at her in silence. Her gaze was burning with such intensity, and he had the feeling that they were teetering on the brink of a confession. As if she were about to tell him that she still... He shut his thoughts down forcefully. It was dangerous to think like that, and it didn't make anything any easier. He couldn't start presuming that she wanted things to go back to the way they were just because she had helped him over the last couple of days. After a few moments she seemed to collect herself enough to continue and took a deep breath.

"You're not going to die, Draco. If it's the last thing I do, I'm saving you."

He couldn't stop looking at her. She looked so serious. She closed her eyes for a moment, then shook her head and arranged a practical smile on her face. Apparently the conversation was over.

"So. Tea?"

He thought about persisting with the topic, but relented. The longer he was awake and sitting up, the more his chest began to hurt. He offered her a small smile in return.

"Sure."

She looked at him for a moment longer before turning away. Before she could take a single step towards the door there was a soft tap and it opened. He glanced up and saw with a sense of great dread Hestia Jones stepping into the room. He wondered briefly if she had been waiting outside, listening, and sat up a little straighter in an attempt to seem in control of the situation. Hestia's calculated gaze moved from Hermione to Draco and stopped.

"Morning. Feeling better, Mr. Malfoy?"

He settled for a grimace, the hopeful tone of the morning severely squashed. He wondered if Hermione and Hestia had spoken yet - judging by the panic in Hermione's face, they had not.

"You look tired, Hermione."

"What? No!" Hermione's rabbit-in-the-headlights expression was not particularly convincing. "No, I'm fine - I was just about to make a cup of tea - would you-?"

"I think you might be better off getting some sleep," Hestia said without looking at her. "I'm sure Mr. Malfoy and I can manage."

Hermione floundered for a moment, but it quickly became clear that she wasn't about to come up with an adequate response. With a helpless glance back at him, she ducked out of the room and he heard her footsteps trotting down the stairs.

Hestia removed her pocket book from her coat and drew the chair Hermione had recently vacated nearer to the bed. She glanced down at it with an arched eyebrow before taking a seat.

"Condition improving? I see you've got some new equipment."

"I'm just fantastic," he muttered.

"So I see. Miss Granger is certainly very attentive to you."

He automatically stiffened, but there was little point in pretending that he didn't know what she was talking about. She was watching him with hard, unforgiving eyes, and her tone indicated no wish to beat about the bush. He had to be careful though - he didn't want to give her any information that would get Hermione into trouble. Hestia was tapping her pen thoughtfully against her thigh.

"Clearly you two know each other a little better than you previously let on," she said, her voice remaining neutral. "Although please don't assume that you're off the hook. Just because Hermione seems to have a soft spot for you, that doesn't mean the Ministry's outlook has changed."

"Obviously not," Draco said.

His constant headache was growing worse, reaching one of the many peaks he went through each day. He caught sight of one of the bottles of Nightshade on his bedside cabinet and reached for it with a grunt. As he was about to unplug it he suddenly thought better of it - he wanted to be on guard when he spoke to Hestia, and the Nightshade was all too good at dulling his awareness. He held it in his lap instead, poised to open it if things got worse.

"And your mysterious injury," Hestia was saying. "That was Bellatrix Lestrange, was it?"

"Yes. At the Battle."

"She certainly had the ability, but I'm a little confused as to her motive. Bellatrix was volatile, but she was anything but careless when it comes to loyalty to the Dark Lord. I checked her record - she cast the spell a few times before she died on various muggle-borns. Never a pure blood though. Traitors were usually tortured or fed to the snake, as I'm sure you recall."

He resisted the reflexive urge to rub his neck. He didn't like where she was going with this. She seemed to catch on far too quickly for his liking. He shifted uncomfortably, looked down at the bottle in his grip in an attempt to escape her unrelenting stare.

"Did you have a point, or are you just monologuing now?"

"I don't think Bellatrix would have cast this kind of spell on you. Why would she? She would have wanted to kill you then and there."

"Well, she did."

"Did she? Can you tell me _exactly_ what happened?"

He pressed his lips together tightly. He hated thinking about the Battle. He made a point of trying to forget everything that had happened, had drowned the memories from that day in firewhiskey in the months immediately following. And there was absolutely no chance he was going to dredge it all up now. No one needed to know how he had ended up with this curse. It would only complicate things. He offered a small shake of his head.

"It was a confusing day. Wrong place, wrong time."

She huffed shortly, and he knew she wasn't fooled. She noted something down in her notebook and he felt again a flair of annoyance. He didn't like the idea that she was making notes about him to go away and hand over to the Ministry, little jotted words sealing his guilt.

"Normally, we would have a lot more time to argue about these kind of things," Hestia said after she had finished writing. "We would be able to consider your options, make a tally of all your victims, weigh up how much time you deserve in Azkaban, and wash our hands of the whole thing over the course of several of these little chats. You would eventually come round to my way of thinking and your eagerness to save your own skin would eventually win out over the silent treatment. But, as you are aware, we don't have quite as much time as I first thought."

He rubbed his forehead wearily, the pain spiking and pulsing at his temples. He wished she would just say what she had to say and then leave him in peace. Why she was even bothering to interrogate him anymore was a mystery, considering he was as good as dead already.

"So, I don't really care how guilty you are," she said lightly. "It doesn't really matter. Once the curse is finished with you, we'll close your file and stamp it 'Death Eater, Deceased'. But there are certain details I want to get straight before then."

"Yeah?" he let his hand drop, resigning himself to it. "What's that then?"

"During your time with the Death Eaters, you participated in several attacks and intimidation schemes on Voldemort's enemies. These included, but were not limited to, the murder of Albus Dumbledore, the abduction of Luna Lovegood, maintaining Death Eater control at Hogwarts, participating in the Battle at Hogwarts and various, should we say, _expeditions_ to ensure Voldemort's success."

Draco's throat suddenly became extremely dry. He swallowed hard, considered speaking, decided against it. He tried not to panic. But the way she was looking at him - as if she had him pinned down and was about to drive a knife through him - made him extremely concerned. He had a bad feeling that he knew exactly what she was about to bring up. She was silent, allowing the silence to drag on, allowing his fear to build. He forced himself to speak.

"And?"

His voice was a thin croak. The corner of her mouth quirked. He hated sitting there while she just looked at him, hated waiting for the blow to come.

"There was a woman, you see," Hestia said at last, forcing him to stop and look back. "A friend of mine actually."

Draco felt his stomach drop away. His hands closed tightly around the bottle of Nightshade. Hestia was lit ominously by the cool morning light, casting half of her face in shadows. Her features were sternly outlined, and he could see a dangerous glimmer in her eyes. She rolled her pen back and forth between her thumb and forefinger, allowing the seconds to crawl by. Unwilling to endure another long pause, Draco wet his lips.

"There were a lot of people in the war. A lot of people died."

"Yes, yes," she said, her voice terrifyingly calm. "To be expected. So you know exactly what I'm talking about, I gather?"

He didn't dare break eye contact. If he had been able to, he would have drawn his wand. From the way she was looking at him, he was convinced that she was about to kill him then and there. But still, in his current state he doubted he would be able to do much even if he did manage to draw first. She had Azkaban in one hand, and her status in the other. He was utterly at her mercy.

"Ursula Tavistock," Hestia said, answering her own question. "We were in the same year at Hogwarts. She began training as an Auror a few years after me, though. Still."

Her shoulders heaved in a silent sigh, and she leaned back in her chair. She seemed to be picking her words carefully.

"You see, once Voldemort put his man into the Ministry, once the corruption started to overflow, a few groups of Aurors took up the charge of trying to stop him. Due to the scale of Voldemort's forces, they broke off into small units and disappeared, setting up camp in secret locations to try to track down snatchers and stop Death Eaters however the could. They were only really throwing stones at him, but I suppose it was better than nothing. Anyway, Tavistock was one of those Aurors."

Draco didn't trust himself to speak. He could see it already – the tent in the depths of the forest, his own breath clouding in the frigid night air. He tried to shut his mind off, but still he could hear her continuing.

"So, after the war, we imprisoned the corrupt Aurors and we interrogated them. And there was this one wizard – Hank Mullen – pathetic type of guy. He was initially in the same unit as Tavistock, but he cracked and fell into ranks with the Ministry under the control of the Death Eaters. I asked him about the night he switched sides, and he told me a lot about it."

Draco's chest gave a sharp twinge of pain and he involuntarily let out a hiss. His body clenched in on itself, but he managed to stop himself from doubling over too much. His fists clenching tightly, he forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths. He couldn't suffer an attack now, not during this conversation. His interrogation was going poorly enough as it was. He decided that it might be time for the Nightshade. He felt Hestia's eyes boring into him as he uncorked it and took a short gulp. The stuff was much stronger than what Mungdungus had brought him, and he had to be careful not to take too much of it. He swallowed it down with a wince and returned the bottle to his pocket, squinting at her. He had to try.

"Look," he said, blinking hard as the back of his skull began to ache dully. "That's enough games. I know what you're getting at. What do you want me to do? There's nothing I can do or say that will change it. It was a war, and I was a soldier. And what the fuck were you doing, anyway?"

Her right eyebrow lifted slightly. "I was in a different unit. Unfortunately."

He knew from the way she sneered that final word what she meant, and he bit back a sharp response, not wishing to inflame her more. The pain in his chest was, thankfully, dulling, and he was able to straighten up a little. He fixed his eyes on hers, his lip automatically curling.

"So you want your revenge. Fine. I'm right here. I don't think anyone would mind very much if I _accidentally_ fell down the stairs and broke my neck, do you?"

She smirked humourlessly. "I don't just saunter around town killing people, Malfoy. I believe that's more your line of work."

"Then what? Azkaban?" he snorted, wiping at the sweat that had collected on his upper lip over the last couple of minutes with his hand. The potion made his head feel a little lighter, his movements a little slower. "Or you could just wait. Something tells me it's not going to be very long."

She looked at him, her face as unreadable as ever. Her lips hand grown slightly thinner, and she seemed to be rolling her tongue around her mouth. Her dark hair, scraped back from her face in its tight ponytail, made her seem all the more forbidding.

"Tell me about it."

He screwed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, trying desperately to swallow back his frustration. He couldn't understand what she wanted. He saw again the dark forest in his head, saw the faces illuminated briefly with wild flashes of light in the pitch black.

"It was very quick," he heard himself. "I don't think she felt anything."

"Where did you hit her? In the back?"

He dropped his hand, shooting her as icy a glare as he could manage. "No, actually. We duelled."

There was the distant trill of birds cooing from somewhere beyond the window in the pause that followed. He found himself staring at the interwoven threads of the quilt on the bed. Some of the lines seemed to move and dance, and he closed his eyes rather than watch them. He was beginning to feel tired, that heavy, gnawing tiredness that he couldn't quite seem to shake these days. He sucked in a heavy sigh and lifted his head. She was watching him silently, still playing with her pen.

"I don't know what you want me to say," he said flatly. "She died. Half of everyone's family died."

"So you admit it. That's progress," she said. "Ever think about her family?"

"I think it all the time. Every day."

He didn't like speaking to her like this. She was digging uncomfortably deep, hounding him into a corner, and he had no other option but to explain himself. And yet there was really no way he could explain. She would never understand, and more to the point, she didn't want to.

"Tell me what happened."

It wasn't a question. He couldn't look her in the face and talk about it. He closed his eyes instead.

 _ **Then**_

 ** _War Years_**

It must have been just before Easter. He had thought he was alone in the house, uninvited to the meeting Voldemort had been holding. He had been heading upstairs to bed after fetching himself a drink, hoping to shut himself into his room before the senior Death Eaters came back, when he had heard an odd, crunching sound. He had turned, squinted into the darkness, and then with a thrill of surprise made out a figure emerging from the corridor which led to the pantry. Huge, hunched, a shaggy mane of hair. His heart jerked as the figure reached the bottom of the stairs and looked up. Fenrir Greyback. Draco hadn't even realised he had been in the house. The werewolf was chewing on a huge slab of meat, clutching it by the bone protruding at one end, teeth scraping at the skeleton.

"Evening, Master Malfoy," he said through a mouthful of food, and with mock sincerity. "Fancy a bite?"

Draco's eyes narrowed. The bottle of Firewhiskey under his arm was not something he was looking to share, particularly with an uninvited guest.

"What are you doing in my house?"

" _Your_ house?" Fenrir smirked. "It's the Dark Lord's house, innit? Someone's got t'keep an eye on things."

He looked Draco pointedly up and down, and a sudden thrill of terror ran through Draco's blood. He lifted his hand, trying to appear inconspicuous, laid it against his pocket to reassure himself that he had his wand. Fenrir let out a short laugh.

"What you gonna do, hmm?" he demanded, stabbing the hunk of meat into the air so that flecks of juice spattered over the floor. "Tell you something you _could_ do – you got any little brothers? Or sisters?"

Draco remained silent, his skin beginning to crawl. He knew Fenrir's tastes, and it gave him chills. And somehow, he had been left in the house alone with this crazed maniac, with a lust for children's blood. He contemplated simply cursing him then and there, but he would never be able to explain himself to the other Death Eaters.

"Got one the other day, you know," Fenrir spoke up again, having gulped down another chunk of the meat. "Bout thirteen, I think. Muggle girl. Delicious." He grinned widely. "You might be a little old for me, eh?" His wolfish eyes ran up and down Draco once more, and his head cocked thoughtfully. "Then again…"

The façade could not be broken, not for a second. It was all Draco had. He wondered if Fenrir could hear his heart beating from down in the hall, and surmised that he probably could.

"You watch yourself, Draco," the werewolf growled, and his ugly yellow teeth gleamed in the half-light. "They're whispering about you. They know you ain't pulling your weight. And if anyone gets upset... Well, I'm just downstairs."

Draco stood frozen on the stairs. He was gripping the banister tightly - too tightly - but there was nothing he could do. He steeled himself to keep eye contact, his other hand still nestled against his blazer, just touching his wand in his inner pocket. Fenrir's face split in a massive grin and, with a low, satisfied laugh, he turned away and headed off into the dining room. Draco watched him go, unable to turn his back until he had disappeared through the set of double doors. Only then could he let himself turn away.

That night he almost tore the pages of his advanced charms textbooks which had been purchased for his final year - now never to be used - searching for more advanced spells to fortify his room. And every night afterwards, he could not sleep unless each spell was in place.

A couple of weeks later, his new chance to prove himself presented itself. He was sent to a dark forest at nightfall alongside Nott, in support of Rastaban, Dolohov and Greyback.

He kept his eyes on the figures ahead of him rather than returning Fenrir's burning stare. He knew full well that the werewolf would be smirking, barely able to hold back his sniggers, but he could only keep his eyes front and his back straight. He smoothed a hand over his hair, pulled his tie straight. Ahead of them, Rastaban and Dolohov were conversing in soft, wary tones. They moved quietly through the forest, the rustle of leaves and twigs underfoot gunshots in the silent, inky blackness.

"Malfoy?"

He suppressed a groan of frustration, glanced over his shoulder. Nott was looking around anxiously, walking too loudly, tripping occasionally on the uneven ground. His eyes had been slightly glazed when they had convened at the Manor. Draco wondered if, like himself, Nott had downed a couple of glasses of something before joining the group.

"Malfoy," Nott repeated in a hushed voice, "How much further do you think it is?"

Draco just shook his head. Nott seemed concerned.

"How many of them did they say there would be?"

"Oi!" Rastaban turned, stabbing a finger at them. "Quiet."

Nott fell silent, but Draco could still hear him breathing heavily. He kept his eyes on the distant trees, ears pricked. Dolohov had said they would be Apparating to roughly a mile away from the area, which meant that they must be getting close. He wasn't sure how they knew which way to go, but they hadn't stopped to check a map once. To his left, Fenrir growled low in his throat, and he only just managed to suppress a shudder. He spotted a glimmer of light up ahead and slowed his page, noting Rastaban and Dolohov doing the same. Dolohov drew his wand and muttered something - the air in front of them shimmered, like disturbed water, and abruptly the trees closing in ahead of them vanished to reveal a small clearing. Within the clearing was a large tent, complete with a couple of brooms leaning against the side. Draco stopped, pulling his wand from his blazer pocket.

"Alright," Dolohov murmured. "No masks. We want them to see our faces."

Draco could feel his blood beating in his forehead and his palms were growing damp and clammy - he wiped them discreetly on his trousers, tried to maintain his composure. Dolohov looked around at them all, dragging a photograph from the inside pocket of his coat. He held it up, the tip of his wand illuminating it. Draco tried his best to focus on the man's features. Long nose, slightly round cheeks, dark hair. They had seen it before, back in the manor, but he couldn't concentrate.

"Remember," Dolohov said, holding it up to all of them. "They're all Aurors, all attempting to sabotage the Dark Lord. This man can run. Everyone else in there dies."

He returned the photograph to his pocket, turned and strode towards the tent. Rastaban and Fenrir moved forwards to flank him, and Draco and Nott fell into step behind. Dolohov raised his wand and the tent flaps flew open, and all hell broke loose.

Draco lifted his wand as he entered the tent, just in time to see Fenrir fly at one of the figures rushing to meet them. Blood sprayed and stained the canvas wall of the tent, shocking scarlet. A hex flew past his face and he turned towards its source, threw up a shield. Sparks fizzled in the air around him, and through the haze of his defence he took in the duels already in progress around the tent. Dolohov was fighting two men; Rastaban duelling with a younger man; Fenrir had a woman pinned to the ground and was tearing violently at her throat. Her blood filled Draco's vision and his body froze in terror. She had long brown hair – but it wasn't her, it couldn't be, she was on the run with Potter, surely not hiding out here with Aurors from the ministry… The woman turned her head, her face streaked with red, still trying to push Fenrir's huge mass away. He felt a dizzying mixture of nausea and relief. Not her.

A curse hit him in the arm and he yelped, staggering sideways. His arm grew hot at once, blazing hot, his skin blistering in seconds, but he managed to deal with it quickly enough to prevent the curse from spreading. As he clutched his wounded arm, a larger man and a woman sprinted past him, through the open flaps of the tent. Yaxley let out a roar from across the tent.

"Get after them! _Get after them!"_

Nott dashed past, disappearing into the night. Draco took one last look at the woman, who was no longer moving, caught a glimpse of a body fall like a stone across the space. Then he turned and followed Nott, running as fast as his legs would take him. He plunged through the sudden darkness, back into the trees the way they had come. Roots and bushes caught at his feet, but he could hear the others up ahead and kept his pace fast. He wasn't sure what he was more afraid of – Nott catching up to two highly trained Aurors alone, or Fenrir catching up with himself in the pitch black. So he just ran, wand drawn, catching sight of flashes of light up ahead.

The ground abruptly vanished beneath his foot and he skidded down the steep bank he had unwittingly sprinted into, crashed onto his side as he reached the bottom. He found himself immediately confronted with a duel, lit only by the bursts of light from spells and hexes – it seemed Nott had caught up with his target. Faced with them at last, his face bore a haze of excitement and fear in the flashes of red light, his eyes wide with adrenaline, his wand slashing furiously at the air. The woman was far better at duelling than him. The man, though, was standing aside from the action, looking around uncertainly, and Draco suddenly recognised him as the man from the photograph. The man not to be killed. He scrambled to his feet, and even as the man whipped about to see him, raised his wand.

 _"Petrificus totalus."_

The man fell face-first to the floor, and Nott let out a savage cheer. The woman whirled about, her wand aiming at Draco, who raised his in return. He inched forwards, breathing hard, his heart thundering in his chest. He could feel sweat sticking his shirt to his back. He had never meant to get this involved in the action, and cursed himself for not simply leaving Nott to it. But then the woman let out a cry and sent a spell in his direction, and he remembered why he hadn't. He dodged her, only just escaping the spell, and Nott leapt forwards once again. Draco glanced over his shoulder, for once wishing the other Death Eaters would arrive, but he couldn't hear or see them. He shot the Dark Mark into the sky, hoping it would be enough to show his efforts. Maybe she would run – he was sure she would be able to overwhelm Nott in no time. He would be able to say he was busy with their target.

A ragged scream reached his ears and Draco turned sharply to find Nott backed up against a tree, clutching at his stomach – a rush of bright red blood painted his hands. As Draco watched, a rope-like vine sprang out of nowhere and twisted around Nott's throat, pulling tight. His eyes bulged and his face was turned bright red in a matter of seconds, his bloody hands scrabbling at the snake-like vine. Draco started forwards but found himself caught with a heavy, invisible blow that threw him sideways into a tree. The impact shook him, and he scrambled up only just in time to cast a protective spell. The woman's curse hit it, driving him back once more against the tree, and he realised what she was doing. He hurled himself sideways just in time to avoid the vine that had been about to snatch him up, threw a burst of fire at it to destroy it. The Auror, her face twisted in panic, lifted her wand. Draco cast another protective spell, stealing a chance to look for Nott, whose lips had turned blue. His eyes were rolling back in his head, his scrabbling hands beginning to falter. Draco heard his blood roaring in his ears.

"Let him go," he ordered, trying to keep his voice steady, commanding. "Now. You'll kill him."

Her face twisted in a humourless smirk. "You killed us."

Draco tried to cast a severing spell on the vine but she blocked it, sent a curse at his head. He ducked, sprang back out of the way as another two curses followed. Nott's body was twitching horribly, foam building at the corners of his mouth, and panic seized Draco.

"Nott, fucking _do something!"_ he yelled.

Nott's wand dropped, forgotten, to the floor. Even as Draco tried to send another spell to drive the Auror back, she deflected his spells with a flick of her wrist and sent back one of her own. As he stepped aside to avoid it, a tight grip fastened around his leg and pulled his feet from under him. He fell with a hard thud, felt something fasten around his neck.

 _Snake. Blood. Suffocating, roaring pain._

He reacted instinctively, even as she levelled her wand at him. His wand was already aimed, the words already rushing from his mouth before the vine could cut them off.

 _"Avada Kedavra!"_

A flash of bright, acid green light, and the vine vanished at once. Draco knew that his whole body was shaking violently, his hands scrabbling at his arms and neck as he dragged himself to his feet, his knees jellied. And yet still, he could feel the snake's scales rubbing against his skin, he could feel the stinging pain as its jaws closed over his neck… He forced himself to suck in ragged, deep breaths, tried to blink back the dark spots spreading over his vision.

Eventually, he didn't know how much longer, he was able to breathe normally again. He became aware of a hoarse, wheezing, gasping sound from nearby, and looked around to see Nott on the ground near the tree. He looked for the Auror, and found himself looking at a motionless body which lay like a cut puppet on the ground a few meters away. He stared at her, his head filled with nothing but white noise.

 _Oh god. Oh, fuck._

For a moment, he was completely certain he was going to throw up. He could see her hand extended across the forest floor, still curled loosely around her wand. A coherent thought managed to surface.

 _Nott. Get Nott._

He stumbled over, his legs barely working, dropped to his knees. He could see a lot of blood, could see the purpled bruises from the vine around Nott's neck. But the other boy was breathing, no matter how terrible his windpipe currently sounded. Draco drew his wand and pointed at Nott's bloody stomach, then stopped himself and pulled aside the black shirt and blazer with his shaking hands to properly see. He wiped helplessly at the blood, then swore at himself and raised his wand again.

 _"Scourgify."_

Blood disappeared, and then welled up once again. He could see some kind of long, bloody split in Nott's stomach, and tried the only healing spell he knew of. The wound remained open, but the blood abruptly stopped flowing. He let out a shuddering sigh of relief, let himself drop back to lean against the tree. Nott felt dazedly at his stomach, and Draco shoved his hands away.

"Don't, it'll be fine. Don't touch it."

Nott tried to croak something and dissolved into a coughing fit.

It was at that moment that Fenrir, Dolohov and Rastaban appeared, emerging out of the dark wood at the top of the bank Draco had fallen down earlier. Dolohov and Rastaban might have just stepped out of the office – not a hair out of place, suits neat. Fenrir… well, he was a different story. Draco looked away from the blood staining his chin and shaggy hair, directed his gaze instead at Dolohov.

"Where's our man?"

"He's there," Draco said thickly, his own voice alien to his ears.

Dolohov looked down, observed the prone figure on the ground nearby. "Where's the other one?"

Draco pointed. The others looked. Dolohov made his way carefully down the bank and over to the man's rigid body. He looked at it carefully, and then waved his wand. The round-faced man jerked into motion and at once began scrabbling at the ground, attempting to crawl away. Dolohov put a foot on his robe, holding him fast, and he let out a shrill whimper.

"You know my name, don't you?" Dolohov said, speaking loudly over the man's muffled cries.

The man nodded. Dolohov reached down and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck with both hands. He lifted him, holding him tightly by the collar.

"Your little secret service team – they're all dead. And any more which are out there won't last long. Do you understand?"

Another nod.

"Good." Dolohov drew his wand and held it in the man's face. "Now, I suggest you go home. Go home, and tell everyone exactly who is currently running the Ministry. No – more – rebellions. Or else."

He threw the man away. Draco watched as he scrambled to his feet and took off into the forest, never looking back. A distant _crack_ reached his ears as the man disapparated. Draco wondered dimly where exactly he was running to.

Rastaban, meanwhile, had also descended and was inspecting the limp body on the ground. He nudged it roughly with his toe, and got not response. Her body rocked lifelessly under his touch, like a bottle bobbing in the ocean. A smile spread across Rastaban's face.

"Congratulations, Draco," he said. "The Dark Lord will be pleased."

A sense of complete horror and dread filled Draco's lungs. His chest felt too tight to breathe. He was distracted by Fenrir, who leapt down from the bank and headed towards him in long strides. Draco grabbed the tree and hauled himself to his feet, clutching his wand tightly, his hand shaking. Fenrir sniffed, looked down at the shuddering, hacking Nott.

"Not dead?"

"No," Draco muttered.

"Oh." Fenrir looked him in the eye, his own gaze piercing yellow and gleaming. "Shame. Lovely smell."

Draco wasn't sure what happened after that. Somehow, he ended up back at the Manor. He went straight to his room and locked himself in. He retrieved the bottle of firewhiskey he now kept on his desk and gulped down as much as he could. He sat on his bed while Nott's blood dried slowly on his clothes. At one point, he heard his mother's voice and a worried knocking on his bedroom door. He didn't move. He stayed there all night.

 ** _Now_**

After he had finished telling her the events of that night, Hestia sat very still in her chair and kept her gaze trained on the window, her face turned away from him. When he had started speaking, she had been making careful notes. Now, her grip on her pen was lax and she barely seemed aware of his presence. Draco wondered how well she had known Tavistock. If he hadn't been screwed before, he surely was now. As he sat there, waiting for his judgement, he realised suddenly that he had never actually talked about it before. He had never mentioned it to anyone.

"It doesn't really matter now, but I'm sorry for your loss," he said. "If I could go back... It was..."

"She was the only person you killed on Voldemort's orders?"

Her voice was stony, unfeeling, unaffected. He raised his head. The question caught him off guard. He had expected her to react somehow, but her face was the same mask it always was. She flicked invisible dust off her knee and looked at him at last, waiting for his answer. He had to take a moment before he could reply, trying to pull himself together.

"I... Yeah."

"You seem to have a soft spot for Nott. Are you withholding information about his whereabouts?"

He couldn't understand how she could be so deadpan about it all. He was left scrambling for words.

"I... No, I told you, I don't know where Nott is. I don't-"

"How much were you involved in the Battle?"

His chest stung, forcing him to catch his breath. He closed his eyes, completely wrung out from the conversation, unable to understand what she was getting at. But he suddenly heard the creak of floorboards and opened his eyes to find her standing up, pocketing her book, pulling her coat straight.

"Well, perhaps you can try to remember. I'll be away for a few days. When I come back, we'll talk further."

He resisted the urge to demand what the hell they had left to talk about. Away for a few days? Wasn't she supposed to be keeping him under house arrest? But his headache was still there, still persistent, and he didn't have the energy to demand more answers. He wished he had never woken up that morning.

"When you decide what to do with me, you know where to find me," he muttered sarcastically.

Hestia offered him a short nod. Then she was slipping out into the corridor, and the door fell shut behind her. The silence after she left was deafening. He stared at the chair she had been sitting in. _What if she tells Hermione..._ He couldn't bear to think about it. Eventually he lay down again, curling awkwardly around the arm that was connected to the IV, and stared at the wall.

 **~O~**

Hermione considered listening outside the attic room door, but she felt like Hestia would somehow know. And after recent events, she didn't want to give the Auror any more reasons not to trust her. Reluctantly, she tore herself away and headed downstairs. Her eyes felt like paper and her mouth tasted fuzzy. She scrubbed her face with both hands. The house was quiet, coated with the pale film of early morning, and the kitchen, when she reached it, was deserted. She waved her wand to set the kettle boiling and sank down on one of the kitchen chairs, rubbing her aching temples. After she and Harry had got back from raiding a hospital for the IV line - something she still felt incredibly bad about - she had spent some time trying to figure out how to actually get it into Draco's arm. She had managed it eventually, and thankfully Harry had remained to help her. By that point it was considerably late at night, and Harry had left to go to bed. His help meant the world to her, even though he still seemed uncomfortable about the whole history between her and Draco. She hadn't been able to leave him, concerned that something would go wrong with the IV or that the curse would get worse. Instead, she spent another night in the chair beside his bed, dozing on and off, checking on him every now and then.

Now the pots from the dinner she had missed the night before were piled in the sink and there were crumbs peppering the surface of the table. She stared at one of them, picking out the fine details of its granular surface. It took her a while to realise that the kettle had been boiling away beside her over the fire. She fumbled her way around fixing herself a cup of tea. After almost pouring the milk down the sink rather than into her cup she sat down again and sipped slowly.

Her head felt like a ball of cotton wool. And she didn't like it.

She wasn't sure at what point it had become so hard between them, when she and Draco had fallen into this horrible habit of letting space develop, letting silence replace everything they used to have. His words during that first night she had sat up to watch over him had brought back how it used to be with a harsh jolt, and brought into perspective how different things were now. Although, perhaps things weren't quite as different as they seemed.

 _"Did you fly thr' the window?"_

The memory those words had sparked had been so real, so tangible, that she had not been able to stop thinking about it. The feel of his heat against her skin, the easiness with which they had used to lie together and simply be. No Voldemort, no Death Eaters, no war – it had just been the two of them. She couldn't pin-point the moment it became hard to be around him. Maybe after they had decided it was too hard to be together in the face of everything. Maybe after he had saved her from Bellatrix. Maybe when she had seen him fleetingly in the Battle, and not known which side he was fighting for. Maybe when he had appeared suddenly at Grimauld Place, and she had understood that so much had happened between them that they had turned into completely different people.

Only now, staring into that mug of tea, she couldn't help but see it from a different perspective. She couldn't scrub out all of those things that had happened. She couldn't pretend that they could just go back to being who they were before. But when she had sat alone with him that night, with nothing to think about but how fucking terrified she was that he might die, something had become extremely obvious. Something hadn't changed at all. When she was alone with him, she became all too aware that he could still move something in her.

Somehow, after all this time, she was still in love with Draco Malfoy.

She sat there for a long time. Eventually, the tea went cold and she got up again to make another. She was just adding the milk when the kitchen door swung open. It was the silence that followed that told her who had just appeared. Her heart sank and she took her time stirring the tea, drawing the process out as long as possible, before turning around and facing him.

"You're up early."

Ron raised and lowered one shoulder in a slow shrug. "Hestia's taking me and Finnigan up to Scotland on a mission. Apparently there's some kind of hideout we need to investigate. I said I'd go with, try to learn a bit."

"Oh, right." Her voice sounded falsely bright, even to her own ears. "Well, be careful. Never know, right?"

He was looking at her as if she were speaking in French. She felt her smile faltering and directed her gaze at her tea instead.

"Do you want a coffee? The kettle just boiled…"

She trailed off, but he made no effort to break the awkward pause growing between them. Instead he just stood there, one hand still holding the door open, his face twisted as if there were a bad taste in his mouth. Just when she thought she couldn't stand the silence any more he let go of the door and moved forwards into the room, crossing to stand on the other side of the table. She fastened her teeth on her lower lip, sucking a deep breath through her nose. Ron's fingers were picking at the zip on his jacket and his ears were red. A bad sign.

"What the hell's going on, Hermione?"

 **Cliffhanger, I know... Draco-heavy chapter, but there should be some more Hermione stuff in the next one.**

 **Hope it was ok.**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

 **Sorry...**

* * *

 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

* * *

 _"Do you want a coffee? The kettle just boiled…"_

 _She trailed off, but Ron made no effort to break the awkward pause growing between them. Instead he just stood there, one hand still holding the door open, his face twisted as if there were a bad taste in his mouth. Just when she thought she couldn't stand the silence any more he let go of the door and moved forward into the room, crossing to stand on the other side of the table. She fastened her teeth on her lower lip, sucking in a deep breath through her nose. Ron's fingers were picking at the zip on his jacket and his ears were red. A bad sign._

 _"What the hell's going on, Hermione?"_

He had never been so direct. She held his gaze as he looked up at her, unable to pretend that she didn't know what he was talking about. He seemed to be struggling with his words, forcing his lips to form them with huge effort.

"The last couple of days… I don't know. You're acting weird, like... like everything with Malfoy... it's like you care or something, or… Bloody hell." He shook his head, giving up. "What's going on?"

She lifted her tea in front of herself, as if it would function as a shield. "What am I supposed to do? Point and laugh?"

"No, obviously not," he muttered. "You know what I mean."

She tried to laugh it off, but she couldn't make it sound convincing enough. She took a gulp of tea, averting her gaze, wishing that someone – anyone – would turn up to interrupt them. But the house was quiet, most people still in bed. She was on her own. She rubbed her thumb over the rim of her mug, trying to find the words to explain. It was impossible. How could she possibly sum up everything from the past few years in a couple of sentences? She had a bad feeling that Ron wouldn't be quite as patient as Harry and Ginny had been. Ron sighed, shifting his weight anxiously from foot to foot.

"Look, Hermione," he said. "I'm going to ask you a question and I just… I just want you to be honest. Have you… Has there ever been anything between you and Malfoy?"

"Malfoy helped us, Ron. Remember the Manor? When he got us away from Bellatrix?"

"That's not what I'm asking and you know it." His hands were balling into fists at his sides and his ears were bright red.

"Why does it matter so much?"

"Because!" he snapped harshly, his face screwing up. "Because you've _never_ looked at me like that."

"Ron…"

There was nothing she could say. And what's more, she had no idea why she was still trying to hide. Everyone must know by now. She had heard them all talking, muttering under their breath to one another in the aftermath of Draco's fit. Everyone knew that something was going on, Ron most of all. Harry and Ginny already knew - it was only a matter of time before they others found out. She took a deep breath.

"Alright. Alright…"

She could almost feel him stiffen across the room.

"You and Malfoy?"

Her tongue felt like lead. "Yes."

"When?"

"Fourth year."

His eyes turned round as saucers, and she almost physically cringed. She hurried to clarify.

"We were just friends at first…"

" _Friends?"_

"… and then it just kind of snowballed," she finished, shooting him a glare. "Yes, _friends_ , Ron."

"And this is why we never… Because you were running around with Malfoy the entire time?"

"No!" she could feel her hands clenching tightly around her mug and forced herself to put it down on the counter top, her lips trembling. "Well, yes… Well, you were all over Lavender anyway, and I wasn't running around with him the _entire_ time, we broke it off in sixth year because of everything, and I barely even saw him afterwards…"

She finally managed to stop the words tumbling out of her, her breath strangely tight in her chest. Ron had turned away from her and was staring at the pots in the sink as if he were trying to telepathically laser them into oblivion. His hands clenched and unclenched fitfully at his sides.

"And that's why he helped us escape from the Manor."

"Yes."

He shook his head slowly. She watched in silence, not daring to provoke him any further than she already had, closing her teeth over her lip once more. Every inch of her crawled with guilt. But she had to endure it - there was no leaving this conversation now. She tried to think of something to say that would diffuse some of the tension, but Ron was speaking before she had a chance. And he was angry.

"Are you serious? I mean, are you _serious,_ Hermione? Bloody _Malfoy…_ You chose _Malfoy,_ some racist, cowardly, evil little brat over me?"

"I didn't choose anyone!" she realised she was shouting and hurriedly tried to lower her voice to a calmer level. "It wasn't like that, Ron, it… Something just worked with us."

"Wait, wait." He held up a hand, his eyes narrowing. "Is this because of me and Lavender? Is this some stupid way of getting back at me?"

She stared at him, unable to believe what she was hearing. Her temper was suddenly beginning to simmer, and she fought to keep her tone civil.

"Funnily enough, Ron, this is not about you. Draco and I just-"

 _"Draco?"_

"- we just clicked," she said, shooting him a glare. "I'm sorry I don't feel for you what you feel for me. But you can't punish me for loving someone else."

"Oh, sure," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Please, go out with everyone but me. Choose _anyone_ else. I'm just saying, maybe you could have picked someone who wasn't the only person who routinely called you a Mudblood, bullied your friends, and signed up to be a slimy fucking Death Eater!"

"You have no idea, Ronald!" she snapped. "You don't know him! You don't know anything about him!"

"I know enough."

"You know what you've made up about him in your own head."

She stormed over to the sink and snatched up a glass, filled it with water. She turned the tap off so viciously that she hurt her fingers. She span around to face him once more, armed with the glass, aware of the twin spots of heat in her cheeks.

"I don't have the energy to argue with you. I'm going back upstairs."

He spread his hands. His face was quivering, his eyes narrowed. "Please, go ahead. Wouldn't want to keep you."

"For god's sake, Ron, he's sick!"

"Doesn't make any difference, you're _fucking in love with him!"_

Her feet had been propelling her out of the room, and she had her hand on the door when he roared those words at her. The glass of water trembled wildly in her grip as she stared at him, her lips moving noiselessly. He was glaring back at her, and she had never seen so much anger pouring out of him.

"Tell me you're not," he challenged. "Go on. Lie to my face. Again."

She said nothing. Ron watched her, his anger simmering steadily.

"Well, great choice, anyway," he said as she failed to reply. "How are any of us supposed to trust you now? You think any of the others are going to want anything to do with you? And all for fucking _Malfoy?_ "

Her mouth was clamped shut, her hands balled into hard, trembling fists. He had just voiced every fear she had harboured about the whole thing, and confirmed every paranoid thought that had crossed her mind since Draco had arrived at the house. And yet, no matter what he said, more than anything she was angry. For the way he accused her of doing it all to get his attention. For the way he demonised Draco. For his utter, pig-headed ignorance, and for the way he was saying all of this just to hurt her. With his eyes still burning into her, she turned her back on him and left.

As she climbed the stairs towards the upper floors, she felt like she might be entering the eye of the tornado. Of course, their encounter was never going to take place in a polite and diplomatic manner. It had exploded, as she had known it would. She was very much aware that she was about to get a dose of the Ron Weasley silent treatment which would make sixth year look like a gentle spat. And even so, she still couldn't quite lose the creeping sense of guilt.

 _You should have told them._

She shrugged off the little voice in the back of her head. She hated feeling like this - like a criminal, constantly hiding from her friends, constantly apologising. She wanted nothing more than to be rid of it all.

Somewhere above her head she heard sound of footsteps on the stairs and slowed down, her stomach sinking at the thought of running into yet another difficult conversation, but rather than one of the others she saw Hestia appearing onto the landing. She looked rather unlike the Hestia Jones Hermione was used to - her face was tight and unsmiling, and there was a vulnerability in her eyes which was entirely unfamiliar. Perhaps that was why Hermione lifted her chin and hurried up the last few steps to meet her.

"Hestia? Can I talk to you?"

Hestia glanced up, and within a moment had regained her usual calm disposition. She offered a smile which didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Not asleep, Hermione? You must be tired, you've had a busy couple of days."

Her tone was light, but underlined with a slight poke at her lies. Hermione ducked her head sheepishly and indicated the living room door, which was ajar between them.

"Do you have a minute?"

Hestia gestured to the door, and Hermione stepped into the room first. She put her glass of water down on the side table as she entered and pressed her hands together instead, trying to steady herself before they began. She still felt flustered after the argument with Ron, and she had no reason to believe that Hestia would react any differently. But she had to try. Enough was enough. She turned to face the other woman, who had closed the living room door behind her and was now waiting, her hands plunged deep into the pockets of her robes, her head cocked to one side, her eyebrow arched.

"Something on your mind?"

"Draco and I used to be together," Hermione said flatly. "We got to know each other in Fourth Year at Hogwarts."

Unlike the others, whose faces had displayed a medley of shock and horror at the news, Hestia simply nodded.

"I gathered as such. Most people don't stay up all night pouring over the bedside of their sworn enemies. Have you told anyone else?"

"Harry and Ginny," she said. "And... Ron."

Hestia's lips quirked. "That must have been fun. And why are you telling me?"

"Because I lied to you," Hermione replied quickly, trying to keep her tone strong and resolute. "And that was a mistake. So I'm being honest with you now."

She thought she might have seen a glint of interest in Hestia's face, but the other woman said nothing in response. Hermione pushed on anyway, speaking steadily and clearly.

"When I first met him, he wasn't a Death Eater. And when he became one in Sixth Year, he broke up with me. At first I didn't realise what was happening, but when Dumbledore was killed..."

She broke off, only then realising how difficult this was going to be to explain to someone who was so distant from everything that had happened. And as an Auror, she doubted Hestia was going to be listening sympathetically. But she was listening, at least, and her face although stern was not unkind. With a flicker of inspiration, she felt in her pocket for her pebble and held it out. Hestia took it slowly, frowning.

"We used to communicate through that," Hermione explained. "He sent me a couple of messages immediately after Dumbledore died, and from what he said it sounded like he thought he was going to die. I believe he only made a show of trying to kill Dumbledore - I don't think he ever meant for it to actually happen. I think he was hoping to be arrested before it got to that point. But he was too much involved to not get caught up in it."

"You seem very sure of yourself, considering this is all just speculation," Hestia said, tossing the pebble back to her.

Hermione caught it deftly. "Because I _am_ sure. Because I know him." She held up the stone again, drawing Hestia's gaze to it. "During the war, when we were on the run, Draco helped us. If it wasn't for him, we wouldn't have won."

Hestia's eyes narrowed. "How, exactly, did you draw that conclusion?"

"When we were leaving Privet Drive at the very beginning, I was stunned and fell off the Thestral I was on. Draco broke cover and saved my life." She saw Hestia's eyes widen incredulously, but ploughed on. "After Harry was bitten by the snake in Godric Hollow, he was sick from the poison. Draco gave ma an antidote. And when we were captured by Snatchers and taken to Malfoy Manor, he was the only reason we escaped."

Hestia was watching her suspiciously. "Do you have any proof for any of this?"

"Harry and Ron," she said at once. "They know that Draco helped us get out of the Manor, they just didn't understand why. And if you ask him, he'll tell you the exact same story."

"I very much doubt that," Hestia said with a humourless smirk. "Mr. Malfoy is extremely reluctant to say anything. It's like getting blood out of a stone."

Hermione found herself smiling. "I know, he can be... stubborn." She shook her head. "It was a mistake for us to hide it. I'm sorry."

Hestia looked away, her piercing gaze fixed on the wall. Hermione waited with baited breath, still holding the pebble tightly in her fist, pleading silently for Hestia to believe her. After a few long moments of silence had crawled by, Hestia fixed her with a pointed stare once more.

"Even if this were all true - even if your ex-boyfriend does have a heart of gold deep down - do you think it really changes anything? If you knew what he did while he was a Death Eater, would that make you less likely to sing his praises quite so enthusiastically?"

Hermione hesitated. She didn't like the way Hestia was looking at her, as if she knew something Hermione did not. Her gaze had grown harder, colder. But no matter what Hestia thought she knew, Hermione couldn't let it get in the way of what she was holding on to. She had to trust him. She owed him that much. So she folded her arms definitely and stared back at Hestia without flinching.

"I know him," she repeated. "Whatever he did, he was forced into it. We've all done things we're not proud of to protect the people we love."

"Have we?" Hestia said lightly.

Hermione bit her lip. There was nothing more she could say - she had poured out everything she had. Eventually, Hestia sighed and reached for the door handle.

"Well, if that's everything, perhaps you should finally get some sleep. I have what I'm sure is a very angry Ron Weasley waiting for me downstairs."

The conclusion of their conversation was surprisingly deflating. Hermione wasn't sure what she had been expecting, but Hestia had barely reacted to her confession at all. Either she was very good at hiding her shock, or Hermione's words had had no effect on her whatsoever. Unable to think of anything else she could say to fight Draco's chase, Hermione gave in and made her way out of the door Hestia was holding open for her, picking up her water on the way. They both emerged onto the landing.

"Good luck in Scotland," Hermione said, somewhat awkwardly.

Hestia finally shot her a smile, and it felt a little less forced than before. "Get some rest, Hermione."

Hermione stood there until Hestia's footsteps had died away down the stairs. Despite the commotion of the morning, she found herself yawning, found her eyes growing blurry. She rubbed at them with the back of her hand. Perhaps she could take an hour to catch up on some sleep. She didn't like the idea of leaving Draco alone, just in case he had another attack, but after all the shouting and arguing she couldn't deny that she was exhausted. She wouldn't be much help if she couldn't even cast decent spells. Resolved, she climbed the next flight of stairs and shuffled into the room she shared with Ginny and Luna. The other two girls were still in bed, and Hermione took the opportunity to crawl under her own duvet and pull the blankets up over her head undisturbed. She would sleep for an hour, two at most, and then go back upstairs. She should probably set an alarm of some kind... Unfortunately, before she had finished the thought, she had made the mistake of closing her eyes and within seconds was snoring quietly.

 **Been trying to make this chapter fit somewhere for ages, which it refused to. So it's here on its own in a shorter form. Apologies for the wait.**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

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 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

* * *

It's a Christmas miracle! I'm hoping to get back to updating more regularly in the New Year. Unfortunately, when mulled wine and food gets involved, updating gets a little more hard to fit into the schedule. Anyway, apologies for the wait and wishing you all a Merry Christmas and a happy new year. Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

Draco didn't realise he was dozing until a sudden rush of panic had his eyes shooting open again. He was on edge at once, his hand slipping beneath his pillow to snatch hold of his wand before he had even focused on his surroundings. The film of sweat on his skin cooled rapidly in the chill air. He straightened up, sat with his elbows resting on his knees. His eyes ached as if he hadn't slept in days, but he knew trying to rest again now would be pointless. He was on edge again. Since his earlier conversation with Hestia, the tight sense of anxiety in his chest had skyrocketed. It wasn't unfamiliar - the feeling came on every now and then, derailing any attempt at rational thought and crawling insistently over his skin. Visions of his time as a Death Eater, of the Battle of Hogwarts, would force themselves to the surface of his mind in a bid for attention. It was hard to drown them out. In the past weeks, he would have sought out a bottle of firewhiskey or from some dingy bar and calm his nerves down. Now, he was going to be forced to simply stay and wait for the anxiety to pass. He pushed his fingers through his hair, gripped his skull.

 _He watched the dawn light on her face and hair. She lay there beside him, one hand closed loosely over his shirt, her lips slightly parted. He took the limp fingers and ksised them carefully, laid them back down as gently as possible. He always loved the peacefulness of her sleep. It was as if she just dropped calmly off into blissful emptiness and then stepped back again when she opened her eyes. He always slept better with her there. Her eyelashes twitched and he felt his lips curving into an automatic smile he couldn't help. Her eyes cracked open and she squinted at him, almost knowingly, as if she was aware of every thought passing through his head._

 _"Morning."_

He lifted his head, pulling in a deep breath, raking his hair back. He felt like his throat was getting tight. The memory had been sudden and unexpected, and the sight of the hazy morning in Hermione's Gryffindor Prefect room was a stark contrast to the cold, dark half-light of the attic room. For a moment he had been lost in the images. Now he was sitting there alone again, and the jarring difference brought a peak in the constant throbbing in his head. His wound began to hurt fiercely, and he screwed his thumbs into his eyes. His body was restless and fidgeting around him, refusing to relax.

He couldn't relax. The small attic room felt like it was crawling with memories, jostling to swim before his eyes. He felt blindly for the bottle of amber liquid on his nightstand and gulped a little down. He clawed his way out of the bed as soon as the pain gave the slightest hint of retreating and felt about for his suitcase, still packed from the couple of days before when he had intended to leave. He got caught up in the IV tube on the way and wrestled with it, eventually pulling it out of his arm with a wince. It took him some time to figure out how to 'close' the strange port Hermione had attached to his hand, long enough that he had to _scourgify_ blood from his skin afterwards. Damn muggle bullshit. Squinting through the pounding headache, he rooted around in the bag until his hand closed around a sweater and pulled it on. He felt like if he spent another moment in that tiny bed in that tiny room he would implode. He needed to do something - to go somewhere. His hand delved into the pocket of his tracksuit trousers and closed around his cigarette box. He needed air.

The journey downstairs had to be slow - he held on to the banister and stopped every now and then until the dizziness stopped. Thankfully he made it to the kitchen without too many close calls. The house was quiet - he wasn't sure what time it was, but guessed it must be somewhere in the early hours of the morning. The place seemed deserted. Which suited him fine. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes straying to the door that led to the kitchen. He had been planning to just step out of the front door and sit on the step, but the thought of a cup of tea was enticing. Resolving to open the kitchen window and smoke a cigarette with a cup of tea in hand, he pushed open the door and limped down the final narrow set of stairs. He would probably get a telling off from someone or other about the kitchen smelling like smoke, but he couldn't find the energy to care. As long as he could be somewhere other than the attic for a while, he was satisfied.

And yet, as he shouldered the door open, he found the window already open and the kettle steaming over the fire. He blinked in surprise at the person currently sitting at the kitchen table gripping a cigarette, eyes wide, as caught in the act as anyone could be. Draco stayed there in the doorway, uncertain of how to proceed - it would surely be too strange to turn around and leave, but taking a seat at the table hardly seemed a realistic option. His eyes skimmed over the short ginger hair and long, weary face, the slightly dishevelled rust-coloured jacket. George Weasley. George Weasley, whose ruffled clothes and tired waxy skin suggested a highly unsuccessful night out which had deposited him in an empty kitchen to drink alone. Draco glanced again at the smoking white roll between his fingers and laughed tiredly.

"Am I interrupting, Weasley?"

George Weasley's eyes automatically narrowed, but after looking Draco over he simply reached for the glass sitting on the table and took a sip of the dark liquid inside. Draco's eyebrow lifted. He couldn't possibly have stumbled on some firewhiskey.

"Only if you're about to tell me to stop," George muttered eventually.

Draco pulled the cigarette box from his pocket and held it up in response. George still didn't look particularly pleased to see him, but a reluctant smile pulled at his lips at the sight of it. Draco took that as an invitation and entered the kitchen, looking forward to sitting down again. His legs were unsteady. He tapped a cigarette out of the box and reached for his wand. Before he used it he turned his head away from George and tried his old trick of producing a small flicker of flame from his thumb. Nothing. He tried to shake off the growing uneasiness and tried his wand. On the second try, it worked. He lifted his head to find George's wary eyes on him, and tried to pull attention away from his magical difficulties.

"Didn't peg you for a smoker."

"I'm not." George caught himself. "Wasn't… since the Battle it's picked up a little."

"Vices work wonders at patching you up," Draco said wryly. "Although I always found that worked better."

He indicated the bottle of firewhiskey with the tip of his cigarette. George followed his gaze and offered a small shrug in response.

"Suppose."

He didn't seem keen on talking, although his attitude was not wholly unfriendly. For one thing, he hadn't told Draco to get lost yet. Of course, that could simply be false comradeship born out of the commonality of sharing a cigarette during the early hours of the morning, but there was something in his face which was quizzical, curious. As if he were turning a question over in his head, trying to decide how to phrase it. The silence stretched for a few moments, and Draco began to regret deciding to remain. He should have simply left when he'd seen the kitchen was occupied – of course they wouldn't be about to sit down together for a friendly chat. He winced as a pang speared through his chest, felt a tremor in his knees, swore under his breath. He was getting extremely fed up with his current state.

"You want to sit down?"

He glanced up in surprise at Weasley's suggestion, wondering if it was simply poorly intended sarcasm. But George stared back at him steadily, and as the deep ache in his chest tugged at his attention once more, Draco decided to take a chance. He pushed away from the counter and swung his leg gingerly over the kitchen bench, sat down. The pain retreated a little as soon as he was able to place his elbows on the table and hunch over, and he enjoyed the relief for a couple of seconds before looking up again. George was regarding him quietly, taking a slow drag on his cigarette.

"What, you want a portrait or something?" Draco said, keeping his tone a little lighter than usual. "What are you doing up this late anyway?"

"Couldn't sleep," George replied, unaffected. "You?"

"Ditto."

"Hermione asleep?"

"Think so. I mean…" Draco stopped, cursing himself silently for the slip up. He had been thinking about the dulled pain in his chest, wondering if it was going to develop into anything worse in the next couple of hours. He tried to cover his mistake clumsily. "How would I know, anyway?"

George just shrugged again. His narrowed gaze flicked from Draco's face to the cigarette, his lips twitched, and suddenly an inkling of where the slightly odd question had come from began to dawn. Draco frowned. Why ask? For that matter, why even stay once Draco had sat down? Why bother engaging in small talk?

"Harry said there hasn't been much good news," George said, glancing pointedly at where Draco's fist was pressing against his chest.

Draco hastily lowered his hand. "Why, you eying up the attic room? Don't worry, don't think it'll take too long."

He wasn't sure if he was trying to be funny or cavalier, but neither really worked. George didn't laugh or sneer – he only shrugged for a third time. Which only served to make Draco more suspicious. The older Weasley had never been shy of poking fun and trading quips in the corridors of Hogwarts, and there had even been that disastrous fight on the Quidditch pitch where either he or his twin had come to blows over Draco's comments about their mother. Why he was holding his tongue now was distinctly suspicious.

"Hermione'll find something," George said after another short pause. "Once she set's her mind on something… you know."

And finally, Draco clocked what was happening. He knew. He bloody _knew._ Hermione had told them. The look on George's face was suddenly abundantly clear – it was a mixture of disbelief, wariness and knowing curiosity. And Draco instantly began to feel extremely uncomfortable. He took a quick breath of smoke, trying to shrug off Weasley's unwavering stare, scrabbling desperately for some way out of the situation without showing his discomfort. He wondered just how much George knew. Surely not _everything?_ Maybe she had only said they were friends? He squirmed helplessly, turning his cigarette over and over between his fingers. He considered denying it – god, he hadn't even been accused yet. Lying had never been this difficult before.

Just as he had decided to simply stub the cigarette out and leave, George suddenly got up from the table. Draco thought for a moment that he was going to walk off up the stairs without another word – instead, he crossed to the draining board and retrieved a second glass, which he carried back to the table. He pulled his wand from his pocket and flicked it at the fireplace with a muttered incantation. Another log lifted out of the basket beside the grate and settled in the flames, which greedily fell on it. George put the glass down on the table and waved his wand once more as he sat down, prompting the bottle of firewhiskey to leap into the air and pour.

"Thirsty?" Draco muttered.

"You looked like you could do with one," George replied.

Draco hesitated, but he'd had his eye on the bottle ever since coming in. And it would help dislodge the nervous, tense feeling in the pit of his stomach. Maybe he'd actually get some sleep after all. He reached for the glass and took a small sip, relishing the familiar taste as it hit the back of his throat.

"Thanks," he said, somewhat awkwardly.

"You know," George said his voice dropping to a more serious level, "You've spend a lot of time pissing people off. But if you screw around with her, you will really, _really_ piss us off."

Draco blinked at him. The other boy didn't seem to be trying to be particularly intimidating, a fact which made Draco appreciate the sentiment far more. Especially since the words seemed like less of a diversion and more of something like a begrudging acceptance. He inclined his head in response.

"Thanks, I'm aware."

"Good."

"She told you?"

"She told Harry and Ginny," George replied. He winced. "And Ron."

 _That_ was a surprise. She had told Ron? He had known Potter would be the first to find out, but he had expected her to keep it from Ron for as long as possible. Ron felt almost like the final blockade standing between sneaking around in empty classrooms at Hogwarts and making whatever might be with Hermione possible and tangible. And yet Ron knew. Which must mean something – for her to tell him, it must mean something…

"I mean, how the hell did you even…" George shook his head, lifting his glass to his lips. "I don't understand how you two even… _met._ "

"Me neither," Draco said honestly. "Wasn't exactly planning on it."

"She said you helped them during the war. That true?"

Draco saw at once a blaze of images from the war. He saw Hermione screaming on the floor of his own dining room, saw ash shooting into the air with a roar of green light as the Battle of Hogwarts raged around him.

"Barely. I tried."

"Didn't realise you were such a saint."

Draco scowled, took a sip from his firewhiskey. "Would ruin my reputation."

"Sure – you mean the reputation where you're a violent, sociopathic Death Eater?"

He lowered the glass. "Yeah. That reputation."

"Right."

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, and Draco enjoyed the smoke spreading through his lungs. Surprisingly, the lack of conversation wasn't all that uncomfortable. Despite the fact that George Weasley was perhaps the last person Draco had expected to find himself sharing a drink with. And yet there was something in the older boy that Draco felt he recognised – something familiar in the way he hung over his drink and clutched at his cigarette. For a while he couldn't see what it was. And then he remembered – of course. The Battle. And, more specifically, the other Weasley twin. He had never seen one without the other at Hogwarts. Seeing George Weasley on his on was odd, like looking in a mirror and not seeing a reflection. Like there was some kind of spectre lingering just out of sight behind him.

"So, you're _not_ a violent, sociopathic Death Eater?" George said, twitching one eyebrow. "I'm actually finding that kind of hard to wrap my head around."

"Yeah, me too," Draco replied. "Would've been much easier to just… let things be less complicated."

"I bet," George said humourlessly. "You batted for both sides until it blew up in your face. I'm sure the Battle was great fun."

His voice had become abruptly hollow, and Draco sensed again that familiarity, that sting. He settled for a simple nod and another gulp of his firewhiskey, George echoing him across the table.

"Probably about as much as it was for you," he replied quietly. "Which, I'm guessing, is why we're both here at – two in the morning."

George's ginger eyebrows pulled together slightly, and Draco felt at once that he had crossed a line. He shut his mouth quickly, fixing his gaze on his firewhiskey, but George suddenly let out a soft _woosh_ of air.

"No, I know. You have the same dream every night, and you lie there and think - how the fuck does this still terrify me every time when I know what's going to happen?"

Draco almost choked on the words which presented themselves on his tongue, but George was pouring out another dose of firewhiskey for them both and he felt like he had to simply swallow his pride and just fucking say something decent for once, or he would never get anywhere with these people. He cleared his throat.

"Sorry, by the way, about… ah, your brother," he said haltingly. "Must've been… Sorry, anyway."

George scrutinised him over the top of his glass, as if searching for any sign of a joke. Draco did his best not to fall into his usual self-protective sneer, instead trying to remain sombre. He couldn't hold George's gaze though, and feigned interest in flicking ash from the tip of his cigarette. After a long moment, George spoke.

"I don't know what I believe about you, Malfoy. But thanks." He sat up a little straighter, clearly making an effort to smile. "He never did like this kind of serious chat. What I really want to know is who the hell made the first move – you or her?"

Draco blanched at the swift change in subject, but felt obliged to follow it. He'd never spoken to anyone about Hermione. He didn't really want to go into detail about their relationship – especially with how uncertain everything was right now – but he sensed that he was entering some delicate kind of comradeship which would be easily lost at any sign of resistance. So he tried to think, and then tried to put it in the most delicate way possible. This was, after all, Ron Weasley's brother. If there were sides to be taken, Draco doubted anyone would be standing behind himself.

"Well, she… I…"

Jesus, how was he supposed to explain that first detention, the letter, St. Mungo's, his mother? It was all too complicated. But George was waiting. He tried to streamline the story as much as he could.

"McGonagall asked her to sit in and supervise a detention I had. She… did me a favour. And then things were just a little different afterwards."

"A favour?"

"Yeah." Draco searched for something else to draw George's focus away from that part. "I guess I made the first move. She was wandering about by the Quidditch Pitch one evening and I was practising. Thought it was weird that she'd be there, so I flew down and…"

"And?"

"Ah… Kissed her?"

He wasn't sure why it came out as a question – perhaps because he wasn't sure if he was about to get hit or not. But somehow, George simply let out a loud bark of laughter that actually seemed real, a grin spreading across his face.

"Jesus, you pulled the Quidditch move? I think Fred used to have some success with that. Fly down after a match and grab whoever was there – he was usually aiming for Angelina, though. Bloody hell, I just can't even… can't even picture that."

"Don't get me wrong, Weasley, but I'd rather you didn't."

George smirked, took another gulp of his drink. "I just can't believe nobody knew. No-one, right?"

Draco saw for a fraction of a second his mother's clear-eyed, tearful gaze boring into him across the fray of the Battle. He saw her face twist sharply, her hand fall as she realised what he was doing. Like someone watching an enormous wave descend on a tiny seaside town. Again, it was too much to explain. There would never be enough words.

"No."

George seemed to notice he had struck on something tender and nudged the firewhiskey across the table. "Ever nearly get caught?"

Draco let himself smirk. As he relaxed into recounting the story, he felt the tense knot of anxiety fading away. Strange that it hadn't taken nearly as much firewhiskey as usual this time. Although he wasn't usually sharing a drink with anyone, much less a Weasley. But as he spoke, and watched George listen and react with alert eyes and an effortless, easy laugh, he had the distinct feeling that for once he was building bridges rather than burning them.

 **~O~**

Hermione woke gradually to the sound of birdsong and the soft glow of morning light through the window of the room she shared with Ginny and Luna. She sat up and rubbed her eyes blearily, took in he familiar piles of clothes on chairs and half-open wardrobes. She stretched, felt her muscles pulling and extending, having forgotten how nice it was to sleep in a real bed and not curled up in a ball on a windowsill. She was really quite content until she caught sight of her watch and the horror of what time it was hit her like a steam train. She leapt up out of bed as if she had been electrified, torn between trying not to wake the others and moving as fast as humanly possible. She all but stumbled into a fresh set of clothes before Disapparating upstairs as fast as she could, certain that she was going to be greeted by blood or dull, lifeless eyes… but, to her surprise, the attic room was empty. She stood there, completely dumbfounded, staring at the empty bed. She raised her watch and blinked owlishly – 5.30am.

Where on earth would Draco have gone at 5.30am?

Her feet carried her unsteadily downstairs. She stumbled every so often, still blinking sleep from her eyes, peering into the living room and bathroom as she passed. No sign of him. She scrubbed furiously at her face, trying to kick her brain into gear. She couldn't believe she had slept for so long. She had meant to be up to sit with Draco again by yesterday evening – she hadn't realised how tired she was. Staying up all night had not exactly been a good idea. She reached the entrance hall and was suddenly filled with a heavy sense of dread as she took in the front door – god, he hadn't just… left? And yet that would be him all over – to simply slip out of the house in the early hours of the morning and disappear without a word, thinking he was somehow making things easier for them both. She stared at the door for a while, wondering whether to contact Hestia or not, before the distant sound of laughter reached her ears.

It was so unexpected that she thought for a moment that she must be dreaming. She followed the noise over to the stairwell to the kitchen, and made her way slowly down. As she descended it grew louder, and she recognised Draco's voice. Draco's voice _laughing._ She frowned worriedly – was he delirious? And yet, there was another voice there too, also familiar. She pushed open the kitchen door and peered inside.

There at the table were Draco and George, each with a tumbler in one hand, a large bottle of firewhiskey lying on its side on the table top. Only a few centimetres of amber liquid remained in the bottle, sloshing unceremoniously about as George rolled the bottle carelessly back and forth. He was grinning from ear to ear – apparently at Draco, but that couldn't be possible. A small saucer had been commandeered from the cupboard and turned into an ashtray, now home to several small stubs of cigarette butts. And Draco was leaning on the table, one fist pressed against his chest, looking tired and strained as before but for some reason actually laughing – the kind of giddy, breathless laugh she had only heard a handful of times before. He stabbed a finger at George, shaking his head.

"I knew it, I bloody _knew_ it," he was insisting. "You _bastards,_ I was scratching for weeks…"

George finally noticed Hermione and lifted a hand in a wave – his gaze was distinctly unfocussed. She could deduct that they were both fairly drunk, although _how_ this situation had come to be was still beyond her. Draco twisted to see her and smiled widely. She stared at him, lost for words, and was even more shocked when he held out his hand to her, beckoning her over.

"'Mione – God – do you remember in fifth year when I was all itchy after the last match? It _was_ them, Fred and George, they snuck into the Slytherin changing rooms with Itch-up Gas! I _told_ you."

Hermione took his offered hand, looking quizzically at George, who was smirking proudly. The whole scenario was absolutely bizarre. Quite why Draco was so jolly about this discovery – something he had harped on about at Hogwarts scathingly for longer than absolutely necessary – was a mystery. She glanced down at the firewhiskey.

"What's going on?"

"Couldn't sleep," George said. "Drank instead."

Hermione raised her eyebrows, finally beginning to move from shock to bemused intrigue. She clambered onto the kitchen bench, not missing the fact that Draco still had hold of her hand. She studied him carefully. He was still wearing that hazy smile, completely unconcerned. It was entirely weird to see him so relaxed with George in the room. He swayed slightly as he twisted to face her properly – definitely drunk. Whether that was a good or bad idea considering his current state was uncertain, but it definitely seemed to have improved his mood. She returned his smile slowly, glancing at George.

"So… Up late? Or early?"

"Both," George proclaimed deftly. "Either. Firewhiskey?"

"No, thanks," she said. "Haven't you got to open the shop?"

"Nah, nah," he said, waving her words away. "Rowena's doing it."

Rowena, who George had only recently been able to take on as an additional pair of hands for the shop, was not quite experienced enough to run the shop alone for a whole day in Hermione's opinion. But even as she opened her mouth to say so, she thought better of it. She hadn't seen George let loose like this for a while, and she knew he'd been stressed over the shop. She looked at Draco again, still trying to decipher whatever was going on between them.

"Bloody slacker," he was saying, shaking his head. "I guess work never starts when you're your own boss."

"You don't know the first thing about running a shop, Malfoy," George retorted, leaning across the table. "In fact, I'd bet ten galleons that you've never worked a day in your life."

Draco cocked his head in mock thought. "Come to think of it, no. Must be doing something right. You could learn a bit from me."

Hermione watched the exchange, speechlessly perplexed. They actually seemed to be trading insults in good humour rather than drawing their wands. She pinched herself beneath the table – no, it was real. She rubbed her thumb across Draco's knuckles, unable to school her features away from anything but shocked disbelief, and he glanced at her with a sideways smile. Knowing, confident – the kind of smile he would sometimes shoot her as they passed in the corridors at Hogwarts. But even as she smiled back, warmth spreading through her, his eyes focussed on something behind her and within the space of a couple of seconds the colour drained from his face.

She checked quickly over her shoulder, certain that she was about to see Ron standing in the doorway, wand pointed at them, his face red with fury. But no – the kitchen was empty but for them. She frowned, glanced back at Draco, but the expression of sudden and complete fear was still there. His jaw had tightened and his eyes widened slightly. She squeezed his hand, trying to catch his attention, but he simply continued to stare. George was still talking, apparently not noticing the change in atmosphere. She watched Draco swallow hard – it was as if he was wrestling desperately with the urge to get up and run.

"Draco?" she said under her breath.

He looked at her sharply, and then behind her again. She looked once more, squinting at the patch on the wall beside the fire he seemed to be riveted on, but still couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. She inched a little closer to him, moving into his line of sight.

"Draco?"

"You see anything?" he muttered, his lips barely moving. "Right there – you don't see it?"

"See what?"

"It's on fire…"

"What?"

He didn't reply. He dropped his head into his hand, hunched over the table, rubbing his eyes forcefully with his thumb and forefinger. George had finally trailed off, apparently realising that he had missed something, and was looking questioningly at Hermione. She shook her head at him wordlessly.

"You've been up all night?" she said, trying to return to the conversation. "You must be exhausted."

"Wasn't before, but now you mention it," George said, glancing at his watch. "Didn't realise the time. Malfoy's been telling me all about your escapades at Hogwarts."

Hermione felt her stomach plunge into her feet. "He _what?_ "

"No, I haven't," Draco said. "He's screwing with you, 'Mione."

She could tell from the tone of his voice that he was trying very hard to sound light-hearted, although he was not quite succeeding in pulling it off. George seemed to have had too much whiskey to figure out that something was wrong – he was yawning tiredly, pushing his glass away.

"Oh, don't worry, Hermione," he said. "Your secrets are quite safe with me. Your boyfriend isn't as much of a shit as he makes out to be."

She spluttered helplessly over the word 'boyfriend', aware that her face was flushing bright red. George looked extremely pleased with himself.

"Shame, you're still as much of a ginger twerp as before," Draco shot back, lowering his hand.

She rolled her eyes and stabbed a finger at the cigarette butts. "You're not supposed to smoke in here – clean that up."

For some reason, they both seemed to find that incredibly funny. George clambered to his feet, pulling his jacket straight with clumsy tugs, still smiling giddily. As he picked up the ashy saucer and carried it off to the sink, Draco's eyes strayed again the coroner behind Hermione's head and that hunted fear chased across his face once more. She reached out to touch his shoulder.

"Hey – you should probably go to bed."

He blinked slowly. "You really don't see it?"

She wanted to push him on what he even meant, but she was pretty sure she was not going to get a response. Instead, she simply shook his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, the heel of one hand rubbing against his chest. Taking hold of the situation, she stood up and pulled gently on his hand.

"Come on, I'll Apparate you up."

He pushed himself upright obediently, unsteady from the copious amounts of firewhiskey the two had consumed. After a slight hesitation she slipped an arm around his waist to help. Her thumb grazed the skin of his hip, the smallest sliver of skin emerging as his sweatshirt pulled upwards, and her stomach fluttered. She tried to concentrate on getting him off the kitchen bench until he was eventually standing upright beside her. She had always liked the fact that he was taller than her, enough for his lips to be level with her forehead. She tried to force her mind away from the thought, peering instead at George who was leaning against the kitchen sink.

"Can you manage?"

George laughed. "Why, you going to carry me up to bed too?"

"You wish, Weasley," Draco mumbled lethargically.

Hermione could feel her face going from red to scarlet. She ducked her head as heat rushed into her cheeks, stuttered out a goodbye of sorts. Draco lifted his hand in something between a salute and a wave, which George returned. Hermione took the opportunity to Apparate them upstairs before anything else could be said to put her on the spot.

They appeared in the attic room to the cold yellow light of the rising sun and the shrill sounds of birdsong. She still couldn't quite wrap her head around how early it was. From Draco's room, she could see the dark shapes of birds flitting back and forth across the window, could see the curving streets far below completely empty of people. She turned him towards the bed and was about to deposit him there when he turned suddenly around and put both hands on her face, one moving to trail absently through her hair. She froze at once, her heart stumbling with a great _thwump_ in her chest. His eyes were unfocussed, but still as mesmerising as she'd always found them, a deep medley of greys and blues, even if they were half shut right now. His thumb moved gently over her cheek. She knew she should probably let go of his waist, but she had been aching for this intimacy, this physical contact for so long now. Since he had first arrived in the house, if she was honest with herself. He ducked his head slightly, and she knew with complete certainty what was about to happen. She told herself she should move out of the way. She didn't.

His lips, warm and unbearably tender, brushed against hers. She tasted the sharp punch of firewhiskey on his tongue, the mist of cigarettes, and then below that other, deeper taste that was unmistakably him. Even as he was now, he still surrounded her with his arms. Before she knew it her mind was soaring and she was pressing herself unconsciously into him, slipping her hands beneath his sweatshirt to feel the warm, smooth skin of his back. She didn't want to take a breath, scared of breaking contact and ruining it – the soft pressure against her lips was building a tight heat in her belly…

He lifted his head, and she struggled to keep herself in check, wrestling with the urge to pull him back against her. His eyes were closed tightly and he was shaking his head, inching backwards away from her until the back of his legs hit the bed and he sat down hard.

"Sorry… Urgh," he said with a guilty half-smile. "Forgot for a minute."

"It's ok," she said breathlessly. "It's fine."

He didn't look up at her, and she reminded herself hastily that he was drunk, that he would certainly have never made a move like that whilst sober, that things were too infinitely complicated to be fixed that easily. She shifted her weight awkwardly from foot to foot, trying to think of something to say to break the silence.

"Do you want a cup of tea? I might…"

He shook his head, already pulling his legs up onto the bed and curling on his side. He kept one arm crossed protectively across his chest. After a moment's hesitation, she sat down on the edge of the bed and watched his eyes crack open and focus on her. She knew he didn't need her anymore – she should just go back downstairs. But it felt too cold to simply walk out after what had just happened. She took in his hazy, slightly blood-shot eyes, and wondered if he'd even remember the next day.

"You told them?"

She wet her lips. "I had to. They almost already knew."

"What did Potter say?"

She huffed a short, uncertain laugh. "Nothing, really. He said he'd have to think. But he helped me get the IV, so we must still be… be ok."

"And Weasel?"

She clamped her lips shut. She really didn't want to discuss Ron with him. He would have nothing constructive or helpful to say – only scathing quips at Ron's expense. And as much as she hated the way Ron had reacted, she still felt unbearably guilty for how it had come out. For her part in the deception. She didn't want to hear Draco tearing him down. She hadn't noticed his coat in the hall earlier – he and Hestia must still be out on their mission. She wondered when he would be back, and was suddenly relieved that he hadn't come back to find George and Draco getting on so well. That would only seem like another betrayal to him.

"That well, huh?"

"We'll have to talk about it properly," she said, swerving his questions. "How are you feeling?"

"Great," he said, turning his face into the pillow. "Numb." And then, after a short pause, slurring a little, "Why did you tell them?"

She pinned her gaze on her hands, suddenly anxious. Telling Harry and Ginny had been a huge step towards something she still wasn't quite able to face up to – admitting that she still had feelings for him. She was still trying to gauge how he felt about her, and how well he was reading her. He seemed to want her too on some level, but whether he would ever actually act on that was another matter. The gulf that had opened up between them was still very much present, although it seemed like they were beginning to tentatively breach it. She felt suddenly angry – why couldn't he have kissed her sober, so that she didn't have to second guess everything he did? And George had called him her 'boyfriend' – was that just a joke at her expense, or a reflection on how the others viewed them? She had no idea, and if there was one thing she hated, it was being left in the dark.

"Because I had to," she said eventually, almost to herself. "Because you're still part of me."

She waited, unsure how her leap of faith would be received. He didn't say anything, and her skin began to prickle with comfortable self-consciousness. He didn't want her. The kiss had been a mistake – she had been foolish to think that they could just wipe the slate clean and return to what they had been before. And just as she was about to jump up and leave, unable to bear the shame of being rejected, she realised that his eyes were closed and his shoulder rising and falling rhythmically. She reached out to touch his arm.

"Draco?"

He was asleep. She let out a groan of frustration and rubbed both hands over her face. It seemed they wouldn't be able to get anywhere for a while yet. She stood up, shoving her hair back, and crossed to the armchair which had become her new home. Her pile of books sat waiting, and she flicked her wand to bring the topmost one soaring into her hand. After all, the curse was still hanging over her head like a storm cloud. She had work to do.

With a final glance up at him, at his eyes flickering behind their lids, she sighed and began to read.

 **This story is going to be a slow burner. Having said that, expect a couple of flashbacks to the Battle of Hogwarts in the near future - think it's about time, don't you?**

 **Thanks for reading. Reviews are welcome.**

 **Happy Christmas!**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

 **Happy New Year all! Hope you enjoy it.**

* * *

 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

* * *

Of course, it was inevitable that eventually he would run into Saint Potter.

He spent most of his time holed up in the attic room, alternating between sleeping and watching Hermione crouched over her piles of books, her eyes flitting seriously from side to side. She sometimes offered him something to read too – never anything about the curse, always something obscurely intellectual. _Exceptional Potion Masters of Ancient Greece. Philosophy and Magic: A Dialogue. Astronomy and the Ages._ He raised his eyebrows at the last one.

"You hate Astronomy."

She shot him a brief, exasperated glance. "It was the first thing I saw – I'm busy, in case you hadn't noticed."

He smirked. "Thanks."

He got through the first couple of pages and then gave up.

The attic room was stifling, with or without the reading. He could only watch Hermione making copius notes in her books for so long before he became agitated. And yet, despite his inactivity, he was constantly tired. Fog and exhaustion developed steadily in his skull and welled in his bones with every passing day – one second cabin fever would be driving him mad, and the next he would be struggling to stay awake. He knew full well it was the curse getting stronger. His stomach was constantly empty, but the thought of food made him feel instantly sick. All he had left was smoking, which he did often, wandering unsteadily around the room with the IV attached to his arm like a skeletal nurse, but he could see Hermione's nose wrinkle every now and again – he knew she hated the smell building up inside. He hated the room anyway – the walls sang of nightmares and flickered with shadows that weren't real, and it wasn't long before he ventured downstairs again. He had hoped that he might run into George, offering him someone else to talk to, but when he paused at the top of the stairs to the kitchen he could hear multiple voices floating up the stairwell, and thought better of it. He didn't want to see what happened if he tried acting friendly with George in front of the others. Just in case.

He headed for the front door instead and stepped out into the open air, shivering as the cool wind hit him. He took a seat on the top step and retrieved the cigarettes from his pocket, the familiarity of the roll of paper between his fingers making him feel more secure. He kept his wand on his lap, his eyes scanning the other side of the street. He knew Muggles and uninvited Wizards wouldn't be able to see the house, but it still made him anxious to be sitting outside during daylight hours. It felt too much like tempting fate. But the streets were quiet, and his cigarette had burned halfway down before he found himself interrupted.

Across the street was a sharp _crack_ , followed by the sudden appearance of two figures that made a beeline for the house with the easy stride of people who knew where they were going. They were deep in conversation, heads together, but he recognised Potter's scruffy mass of black hair and Ginny Weasley's bright orange curtains immediately. His heart sank and he considered trying to Apparate for a moment – he'd just had a large swig of Nightshade, perhaps he could make it – but before he could even rise Potter had looked up and caught sight of him. He saw the other boy's face tighten at once and felt a familiar grimace on his own. But it was too late to run, and that meant fight was the only other option.

"Malfoy," Ginny Weasley said as they climbed the steps. Her greeting was only a little forced. "Haven't you got enough to worry about without adding those into the equation?"

She nodded at the cigarette in his hand, and he made an effort to smile pleasantly. It always seemed to come out twisted.

"Well, I like to play the death lottery," he said sarcastically. "Which will it be, curses or lungs? Very exciting."

Ginny cast her eyes upwards. "Where's Hermione? In your room?"

He said nothing, and she continued on past him and into the house without waiting for him to answer. Potter stayed, still a few steps below him, one hand gripping the iron railing. Draco felt oddly uncertain about looking him in the eye, and instead looked at the glowing end of his cigarette. But it felt too cowardly, and eventually he made himself glance up. Potter was staring at his own hands, picking at the iron railing, his face lined with something close to anger.

"Help you with something, Potter?" Draco said at last, unable to sit in silence any longer.

Potter's eyes narrowed, frustration flickering across his round glasses. "Hermione told me."

"I know."

"Right."

Potter's tongue darted briefly across his lips. He opened his mouth, shut it again, and then directed his gaze at the wall. Draco groaned and dropped his head into his hand. He had been waiting for this moment – the moment Hermione's friends came to him one by one to warn him to stay away from her, or watch how he treated her, or whatever else they felt it their right to say. Of course, they would now know all about what was best for her, despite having no knowledge of their relationship previously. He barely knew what their relationship even was.

"What are you going to do, Potter?" he said flatly. "If you've got some kind of speech about staying away from your girls, do me a favour and get it over with."

"Hermione doesn't need me to talk for her," Potter replied quietly. "It's up to her whether she wants you or not."

Unexpected. From Potter's tone it was clear what he would prefer, but he didn't press the topic. Potter was standing there with the anxious, tense stance of someone who had something to say, and if it was not a warning about Hermione, Draco was mildly intrigued to know what it was. The feeling of forced friendliness Potter had shown towards him since arriving in the house was absent now, replaced with a kind of weary rawness. Draco waited, tonguing the end of his cigarette, his eyebrows pulled together. Potter looked down at him.

"I always wanted to believe you didn't want to be involved," he said, his voice slow and precise. "I always hoped you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. But it can't always have been that. Sometimes it must've just… been easier to go along with things."

Draco felt his lip curl, unable to stop it. He sneered, tried to stop himself from automatically reaching for his wand. It was an automatic reaction when getting into arguments with Potter and Weasley. Although he doubted it would do much good now.

"We're not all quite as blessed as you, Potter. Sometimes things don't fall into place like you want them to."

"And you think being constantly hunted by Voldemort was 'things falling to place', do you?" Potter demanded coldly. "You think growing up with Muggles who hate everything about you is 'blessed'?"

Draco hated the fact that he flinched at the name. He couldn't be sure if Potter noticed or not. He chewed on his lip, trying to pull his mask back into place. Potter wasn't usually so direct with him, and he wasn't quite sure how to respond. He shrugged, tapped ash from the end of his cigarette.

"Blessed in different ways then, granted," he said, unable to match Potter's severe tone. "Or cursed in different ways, maybe."

"I wanted to tell you that I believed her," Potter said. "Hermione. When she said you'd been helping us. The antidote for Nagini's venom. The Manor."

Draco almost swore aloud. She really had told them everything. He had no idea what he was supposed to say to that. He shifted uncomfortably, tried to smoke, realised he'd finished his cigarette. He stubbed it out on the step and reached for another. He could feel Potter's rigid gaze on him, could feel his skin prickling uncomfortably with the heat of it. He focused on lighting his cigarette.

"Why did you do it? Why did you help us?"

He sniggered slightly at that, still unable to look up. "What do you mean, _why?_ Because she asked me to." He cleared his throat slightly. "Because not doing it would be worse."

"And now?"

Draco blinked up at him at last, frowning. Potter still looked deadly serious, although Draco couldn't quite understand the question.

"What do you mean, now?"

"There's still Death Eaters out there," Potter said pointedly.

"The Death Eaters are over," Draco scoffed. "Whoever is still out there, they're just stragglers. They won't last."

"And if they do?"

"What, Potter?" Draco muttered, scowling. "What do you want? I'm not a Death Eater – there, is that what you wanted me to say? What difference does it make if I say it out loud or not?"

"See, that's always been the point, Malfoy," Potter replied. "It _only_ makes a difference if you say it out loud."

Draco took a few long drags on his cigarette. After a moment, Potter looked away again, as if slightly embarrassed, and Draco took the opportunity to shake off the serious, sombre atmosphere the other boy had just thrown over the conversation.

"Difference being it gets you killed. What's your point?"

"Point is – I trust Hermione. So, by extension, I trust you." Potter leaned forward a little, waiting for Draco to look up before continuing. "But you're going to have to try too. What's Hestia been asking you?"

"What everyone asks me. What does that have to do with anything?"

"From now on, answer her. She thinks you're holding back. Tell her what she needs to know."

"Since when did I take orders from you, Potter?" Draco demanded, arching an eyebrow at him. "I don't have anything to prove to you."

"Don't you?" Potter straightened up and headed past him, climbing the steps to the front door. "Goes both ways, Malfoy."

He disappeared into the house, leaving Draco behind to wonder what the hell had just happened. He wasn't sure if he'd just been handed an olive branch or an ultimatum, but it was somewhat comforting to finally have Potter speaking normally again – direct, unapologetic – rather than offering him those strange, kind smiles he had been trying before. He felt more comfortable when they were arguing. He would have liked to try to find out exactly when Hestia Jones planned on returning to resume their frigid interrogations, but apparently that information was not to be forthcoming. He would just have to assume that she would turn up on one day or another, most likely with more questions.

He finished his cigarette and sat for a while longer in the cool air before hauling himself to his feet and shuffling back inside, his chest throbbing with that angry, persistent ache.

 **~O~**

Two days passed fairly uneventfully. Hestia – and Ron – did not return from whatever mission they had been on, and Hermione heard no news of their activities from Harry. She spent most of her time hunkered down in the chair beside Draco's bed, sifting through her book, making many notes and little progress. Draco read and smoked and stared out of the window, un-communicated thoughts flickering behind his clouded eyes. He didn't bring up kissing her, and she didn't risk asking him if he remembered. She told herself it was wholly unimportant. That it made no difference to what they were doing at all.

Hermione didn't see much of the others. She still felt like she was hovering in some kind of limbo, still waiting for something to happen – either for rejection, or acceptance. She was failing to progress there, and she was failing to progress with the curse. She owl'd Professor Slughorn, but received no response. As far as she could see, there was no possible cure. She chewed on the end of her pencil and watched Draco until he noticed her gaze, and then stared at her paper until he stopped looking. More than anything else, she felt abandoned. Hestia hadn't made any effort to make contact with her, and she didn't like the way the Ministry had just shrugged Draco off like a bothersome fly. She couldn't understand why they weren't making more of an effort to help, especially when he was one of the few links with the Death Eaters they had. He didn't bring it up, barely mentioned anything about the curse. But she knew he wasn't sleeping, and that he needed more and more Nightshade to pull himself through.

She was downstairs in the kitchen, turning the pages of a levitating book with her wand as she poured a cup of tea, frowning through the steam, when Ginny cornered her. She had been concentrating so hard on the book that she hadn't heard the other girl come in, and almost let the book fall out of the air in alarm. She had been trying to slip away and back upstairs but Ginny blocked her path.

"Stop avoiding us, Hermione!" she said, rolling her eyes. "Just because of the whole Draco thing… Look, you're holed up in that room all day every day. Take a break and watch something with us tonight. It's _movie_ night."

She tried to make her excuses, but Ginny refused her at every corner. And, truth be told, she missed seeing the others. She missed fitting in. Her familiarity with Draco had isolated her somewhat from the group, and the longer she stayed distant the worse it would become. So, eventually, she agreed to meet them in the living room and watch a film, telling herself that she would only stay for half before excusing herself. When she mentioned it to Draco he seemed indifferent. He never asked how the research was coming along, although she suspected he knew that she had found nothing of use. And she was running out of books.

None of which boded well.

That evening she reluctantly put a torn piece of paper in her book to mark her place and got up from the armchair in the attic room. She had retrieved a book from the living room for Draco earlier, having noticed how bored he was getting – the cigarette trips were becoming more and more frequent. He sat upright in the bed with it open on his lap, duvet heaped around him in miniscule mountains, his gaze focussed on somewhere distant. She stretched, looking around the room.

"Well, you've got…" she retrieved her stone from her pocket, held it up as he glanced up. "Just in case."

He nodded at his own, which lay on the bedside table. "Yes. In case."

She felt wrong about leaving him there. It seemed like the headaches were almost constant now, and she felt convinced that as soon as she left the curse would grow worse again. But still, she forced herself out of the room and down the stairs. She paused to steady herself before stepping into the living room, aware that it was the first time she had faced the others properly as a group since telling Harry and Ginny the truth. She wasn't sure who exactly had heard about her and Draco, but she knew that rumours travelled fast and that, if George had known, that meant others would know too. As she stood outside the door, she heard the murmur of hushed voices and her uncertainty doubled. Whispering did not indicate comfort. But she couldn't back down now, so instead she steeled herself for questions and stepped into the living room.

The muttering broke off at once, confirming her fears that they had been talking about her. The others were already there – she was late. Minus Ron and Seamus, that is. Grouped on one of the sofas were Luna and Neville; sharing the armchair were Harry and Ginny. George, as usual, sat at the small table by the window, pouring over reams of parchment, trying to get his shop in order. Dean was kneeling by the television, flicking through the selection of DVDs that had been pitched in for the night. The other sofa was, for now, vacant, and Hermione curled herself into the far corner of it. She offered the others a tentative smile, and was relieved when she received one back – only Neville and Dean glanced away.

"Hello, Hermione," Luna said distantly. "We haven't seen you for a long time."

"No, sorry," she said. "I've been… busy."

"That's alright," Luna replied with a smile. "How's the research?"

Hermione offered a shrug in response, unable to confess that she hadn't found anything. Luckily, Pavarti chose that moment to enter the room, laden down with popcorn and a handful of mugs. Dean rose to help her deposit her armload of snacks on the coffee table, and she glanced up at Hermione as she leaned down.

"Hey – how's… everything?"

"Ok," Hermione said, trying to smile. "Same, really."

Pavarti's face was empathetic, but the contrast between that and Neville's clear discomfort – alongside Dean's outright wariness – did little to put Hermione at rest. She looked away, caught sight of Harry and Ginny, they were still talking quietly, Harry's brow furrowed. Hermione tried to concentrate on something else, reverting back to her usual response to rumours – pretending she couldn't hear it. She had to take the fact that they had accepted her back into their movie nights as a positive, and learn to cope with the rest. She reached for the popcorn, more for something to do with her hands rather than anything else.

"Hey, Hermione? You think…" Harry cleared his throat. He glanced at Ginny, who offered a nod. "You think Malfoy would want to join us?"

She froze, halfway to the popcorn. But he didn't look as if he was joking – even though Dean and Neville were staring at him as if he had just announced that he would like to make the television into a horcrux for himself. Harry glanced at them, clearly a little uncomfortable. Luna, as usual, looked mildly interested – it was she Hermione had been most concerned about, considering her history with the Death Eaters, but she only smiled airily as Harry straightened a little in the armchair.

"I mean… obviously if no one has a problem with it."

On the sofa beside Neville, Pavarti had become very interested in a loose thread on her jumper. Dean looked stony-faced, but said nothing. The silence stretched on, and Hermione wet her lips uncertainly.

"Yeah, I mean… If you guys would rather…"

"No, it's fine," George spoke up, throwing her a smile. "Why not, right?"

"I mean it's, what, seven against one?" Ginny put in. "Reckon we'll be ok."

Neville still looked rather unhappy, but didn't argue. Hermione rose to her feet, pausing, still waiting to see if any of them would speak up against the idea, but no one did. And Harry was looking at her encouragingly. He was clearly making an effort to understand, and she had to take advantage of it. She nodded and slipped out of the room and up the stairs. She knocked on the door to the attic room once before entering, and found Draco sitting where she had left him, the book resting against his knee, flicking through the pages dully. He glanced up at the sound of the door, blinking wearily. He had been looking more tired today.

"Finished already?"

"No, hasn't started," she said, slightly breathless from the stairs. "Do you want to come and join us?"

He looked at her quizzically. "You can't be serious."

"Harry asked," she insisted. "It might be… nice."

He smirked. " _Nice?_ "

She rolled her eyes. "Fine, stay here by yourself."

"Wait!"

She stopped, one hand on the doorknob. He sat there, the book half-closed, his lips parted, his brow furrowed. He looked as if he were trying to solve a particularly difficult potions formula. He glanced up at her, and then sighed and shut the book, pushing it onto the bedside table.

"Well, better than sitting up here on my own. Nothing to do anyway. Fuck's sake…"

He was pulling himself upright, wincing. His mouth was a firm line, and for a moment he looked almost nervous. He reached for his wand and jerked it at the chest of drawers, _accio'ing_ a jumper. He pulled it on and swung his legs out of the bed, reaching for the wall, his face tightening. Proud of her bluff – and, secretly, of him for calling her back – she headed over to help him, wrapping her arm around his waist. He only hesitated for a moment before resting his arm around her shoulders, a position they had become used to over the last couple of days.

"Ready?"

"No," he muttered.

She grinned and pulled him gently towards the door. They shuffled out into the corridor like contestants in a three-legged race and inched down the stairs. He pulled free of her before they reached the living room, determined to take his own weight, and she reached for his hand instead. For a moment she thought he would pull away, but instead he returned the encouraging squeeze she offered. His skin was slightly clammy, but he seemed more or less steady. She knew what he was thinking – the same thing was going through her head. After all, they had never been together in front of the others before. Not that they were together now. Although they certainly weren't _apart…_ She shook the thoughts off. Either way, whether they were friends or more, she refused to be ashamed of him. She'd had enough of hiding. The exchange with George a couple of nights ago had showed her that the others were less uncompromising than she had thought. She pushed the door open, and they moved inside.

The quiet chatter fell away at once, and she felt Draco stiffen automatically behind her. She knew that his face was settling into the old, sneering mask he took on in front of them, and decided to interrupt it before it could escalate.

"He said he'd love to," she said, smiling.

"I never said that," he muttered.

"Sure you did," she replied, shooting him a glare. "And I for one can't wait to see Draco Malfoy watch TV – this is going to be like watching a dog walk on its hind legs."

She knew she was talking too much, but her nerves were making the words bubble out. Luckily, while the others glanced uncertainly at one another, George came to her rescue. He looked up from his parchment in the corner his face brightening.

"Alright, arsehole? Still milking it?"

"Still not thought of something new to say, Weasley?" Draco replied, letting Hermione lead him over to the empty sofa. "Honestly, don't bother unless you're bringing new material."

George looked him up and down with mock curiosity. "Honestly, you look fine. What is _actually_ wrong with you?"

"I _was_ fine, until I saw your ugly mug."

Hermione saw several of the others look rather surprised at this exchange, and couldn't help but feel somewhat panicked. She felt as if their friendliness was something the rest of her friends were not quite ready for – particularly Neville, who was now staring at George with a mixture of fright and alarm, as if he expected him to suddenly morph into Crabbe or Goyle and begin taunting him. To her relief, Ginny smiled at her and came to her rescue.

"I vote we put on one of the old movies, like the one we watched last time. What was it – _Dawn of the Dead?_ "

Hermione nodded, sitting down on the empty sofa. Draco sat beside her, oddly straight-backed, looking intently at the flickering TV screen. He was still frowning, with more severity than was necessary for observing glitch Muggle technology. He was nervous too. She kept hold of his hand and ran her thumb over his knuckles, trying to be supportive. He glanced down, cleared his throat slightly, looked back at the crackling interference on the screen.

"So," he said. "Is this it, or is there more?"

"Of course not!" she said indignantly. "I've told you about these before. You watch stories on them – like the moving pictures in the prophet."

His eyebrow arched, moving incredibly slowly and purposefully. "Thrilling."

She would normally drive her elbow into his ribs at such a comment to dislodge his lofty air of disinterest, but thanks to the curse she had to settle on a gentle nudge instead and try to pour the rest of her annoyance into the stare she pointed in his direction. The corners of his mouth quirked in what could almost have been a smile. Dean held up one of the DVDs he had been rifling through, showing it to the others.

"How about this – _Jaws?"_

"What is it?" Luna asked, gazing with interest at the shark on the front cover. "Is it about triple-jawed Carpophods?"

"No," Harry said, shooting Ginny an amused glance. "It's about a giant shark that tries to attack people."

"Sound's great," George put in from across the room.

 _Jaws_ was decided on, and Dean retreated to a cushion on the floor in front of the other sofa once it was on, pointedly ignoring the space beside Draco. Hermione pretended not to notice, but couldn't help but feel the atmosphere was soured. She tried to glance at the others out of the corner of her eye as the movie began. Most seemed happily engaged in the flickering lights and pictures on the screen – it was only really Neville who glanced across every now and again, clearly a little unsettled. She tucked her knees up on the sofa and tried to focus on the movie. She couldn't help but let her gaze stray to Draco every now and then. He looked tired – he always looked tired. He watched the moving images on the screen through narrowed eyes, kept one hand slung across his lap near the pocket she knew his wand was stored in. She wished he didn't have to feel so on edge all the time. She sat beside him, feeling his skin under her thumb, hoping fiercely that he wasn't as anxious as she was. She kept one eye on him. As the film went on he began to close his eyes in long, frequent blinks. She wondered how the noise of the movie was treating his headache.

Eventually, when his jaw clenched for the sixth time, she leaned forwards and spoke in a low whisper.

"Do you want to lie down?"

His eyes flicked sideways, an unspoken admission that he did. But he had never been vulnerable in front of the people he had used to jeer at on a daily basis, and it was going to be a strange leap. She was going to suggest taking him back upstairs, but as she squeezed his hand he nodded. She shifted up against the end of the sofa and reached out a hand. After only a brief hesitation he let her hands guide him down until his head was resting on her lap and his legs were tucked up on the sofa. She felt rather than heard him sigh, felt some of the tension trickle free of his limbs. As she rubbed his arm he reached up to let his fingers weave between hers. She shot a quick glance around at the room, but everyone was focused on the movie. For now, they were free under the cover of the dim lights.

In fact, she couldn't remember the last time they sat together and relaxed like this. Reading furiously and researching upstairs was a different kind of quiet. Sitting there among the others in Grimmauld Place offered a sense of security and safety she hadn't been able to enjoy with him for a long time. This wasn't a brief second snatched between the acrid fear of the war – this was a calmness which came with certainty. Only then he flinched – only the smallest movement – and she was remained sharply of the curse, of the reason that his arm was still held over his chest. She took advantage of the bubble of tenderness they had strayed into and let her other hand slip gently into his hair.

His weight on her lap had been growing heavier since he lay down, and after a few more minutes of the shark roving to and fro across the screen, his head lolled to one side on her lap. Her initial feeling was fear – after all tension of the last few days, it was difficult for her to not feel him go limp and expect an attack on the horizon. But when she glanced down at him, his face lit with the glare of the television screen, she could tell at once that he had simply fallen asleep. His face was relaxed for once, his lips parted slightly, his eyes closed. And, unlike the fitful sleep she usually saw him struggling with, he actually looked peaceful. She let her fingers weave a path through his hair, watched his eyelids flicker blindly in sleep.

When she looked up, she found Ginny's eyes on her. The other girl was watching them silently, her head cocked, her brown eyes flickering with questions. Hermione felt her stomach lurch – she felt as if she had been caught in the act. Her hand stilled abruptly. Ginny indicated Draco with her eyes and mouthed silently across the room.

 _Is he ok?_

Relief spread through her like physical warmth. She nodded, smiling. Ginny smiled back before returning to the movie, leaning against Harry once more. Hermione shifted on the sofa, enjoyed the closeness of Draco against her. It had been a while since they had been this close. And it felt like coming home.

She waited for the movie to finish and for the others to shut off the TV before straightening, ready to head upstairs as soon as possible. Taking advantage of their chatter as they began to discuss the movie, she stroked Draco's cheek gently. Thankfully, his eyes opened fairly soon, even if his gaze was unfocussed and glazed.

"Hey," she murmured softly. "Want to go to bed?"

He smiled widely, his eyes still half-shut, and reached up to tangle his hand in her hair. "Mmm. Definitely."

She felt her cheeks flood with heat. Apparently he had not quite managed to wake up yet, and she was all too aware of the others growing quiet, noticing their conversation. She hurried to explain to him where he was, even as he pulled at her.

"No, Draco – I actually mean _bed_."

"Me too," he slurred. "C'mon, my tongue's not nearly as busy as it should be…"

She had never been more mortified in her life – until, at least, George burst out laughing across the room.

"I did _not_ need to hear that," he chortled.

Draco seemed to blink awake at that, beginning to figure out where he was. She cast her eyes skywards, trying to shrug off the stares of the others, still pulsing with embarrassment. Draco seemed to stiffen too, trying to sit upright, weaving unsteadily from side to side. As she steadied him, she noticed the heat emanating from beneath her hand where it rested on his neck. She felt his forehead and felt the same steady heat.

"You're warm. Do you feel warm?"

He shook his head, moving slowly as if underwater. Like he had moved when he was drunk the other night – only now, he definitely wasn't drunk. She reached for his hand, trying to catch his gaze, but it wasn't working. He was looking straight through her. She tried again.

"Draco?"

His gaze flitted towards her at last, still slightly confused, but a little more awake now. She studied him – pupils dilated, glazed, skin slightly shiny with heat. She frowned.

"I think you might have a fever."

He shook his head again, but she could tell something wasn't right. She couldn't shake the fear that there was another attack coming on – it had been a few days since the last. She stood up, offering the others an apologetic smile.

"Might head upstairs – you know."

"No, no, don't let us stop you," George said merrily.

She glared at him, but he only grinned. She nodded at Harry and Ginny, who were both watching with some concern, and turned to Draco. He was sitting upright but slightly hunched over, and she could still read the unfocussed blankness in his face that said that he wasn't all there. She held out her hand, and he blinked at it for a few moments before taking it. She pulled him upright and quickly put her arm around his waist as he swayed. This close to him, she could feel his breath on her cheek and hear the quiet moan he let out as he straightened.

"Okay?" she said.

He nodded, rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. And just as she was about to Apparate upstairs, the door to the living room opened.

 _Ron._

She knew before she even looked up, flinching as if she had accidentally thrust her hand into the fire. She couldn't risk letting go of Draco – he was too unsteady. She had no choice but to hold onto him and look Ron in the face.

He stood just inside of the door, holding it for someone to follow. His ears were instantly luminous red and his lip was twitching furiously, but he only looked away and fixed his gaze resolutely on the wall. His hand closed around the doorknob so tightly that his knuckles turned white. She opened her mouth, but almost at once Hestia Jones appeared behind him and she had a different kind of concern. Hestia smiled her usual smile – the one which did not reach her eyes.

"Evening, all."

"Hi – Hi," Harry said, scrambling up from the sofa. "I – didn't know you were back tonight."

"Just arrived," Ron said stiffly, his lips barely moving.

"Successful mission?" Ginny piped up.

Ron just looked at Harry, his face thunderous. Hestia cleared her throat.

"Somewhat. I won't keep you – just wanted to have a quick chat with Mr. Malfoy before I return to the Ministry for the night. Harry, Hermione, Ron – I thought you could join us."

Hermione felt her own face fall. The last thing Draco needed was an interrogation – and why she and the boys had to join them was even more disconcerting. She looked at Harry for support, but he seemed to be fighting his own silent battle with Ron. She could sense Draco raising his head, trying to stand upright on his own, and spoke up quickly.

"No, Hesita – this really isn't a good time–"

"Now's fine," Hestia replied coolly. "Kitchen?"

"Be right down," he said, his voice lapsing into its usual disinterested tone, only a hint of strain beneath the words.

Hestia nodded, turned and headed downstairs. Hermione caught at Draco, trying to silently beg him not to go, but he offered the tiniest shake of his head and moved towards the door. His legs were trembling and she was forced to move with him, pulling his arms across her shoulders, feeling her cheeks growing hot as they passed Ron. Once out in the corridor she could feel the weight on her shoulder grow heavier, and she decided against walking and Apparated them downstairs instead. Draco took the first opportunity he had to drop into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, and she climbed onto the bench beside him.

"Draco, you don't _have_ to talk to her," she hissed, keeping her voice low. "I don't think it's a good idea, you're not well-"

"Not getting any better, am I?" he muttered.

She stopped short, and he lifted his head, looking at her with some difficulty through hazy eyes. He reached for her hand on the tabletop and squeezed it.

"It's ok," he said, smirking slightly. "Got my bodyguard."

Before she could reply, the door was opening and Hestia, Harry and Ron were filing through. Hermione let go of his hand, and instantly hated herself for it. Ron's eyes were looking anywhere but them – he dropped into the seat furthest from them and glared at the fire, arms folded tightly. Harry sat down slowly in the seat beside Draco, glancing around at them all, no doubt trying to figure out what was happening. Hestia was taking a seat at the other end of the table, in front of the burning fire, removing her notebook and pen from her robes. Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She felt as if the other woman had taken on a different air to when she talked normally with the rest of them. She had become spikier, sharper, her face harder. There would be no pleasantries extended here. She was here for another purpose.

"Not much progress made, Harry, but I'll tell you all about it at the next meeting," she said, smiling at him wearily. "Everything alright here?"

Harry just nodded. Hestia's x-ray stare turned onto Draco, and Hermione saw him lift his chin slightly out of the corner of her eye. Ready for battle.

"This going to take long?" he said, his voice a little quieter than usual.

"I don't think so," she replied. Her eyes narrowed. "Why don't you tell me about the Battle of Hogwarts?"

 **Let me know what you thought - see you in the next chapter!**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

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 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

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LOOK HOW LONG IT IS.

Can't thank you guys enough for all the heartfelt reviews. I'm really glad you're enjoying the ride. I must apologise for so many mentions of muggle stuff in Draco's POV early on in this story - most definitely my mistake, sorry it escaped my notice. I don't have a Beta, so I sometimes miss bits and bobs on the second read through. Still, hope there aren't too many typos in this bit!

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 _Hestia's x-ray stare turned onto Draco, and Hermione saw him lift his chin slightly out of the corner of her eye. Ready for battle._

 _"This going to take long?" he said, his voice a little quieter than usual._

 _"I don't think so," she replied. Her eyes narrowed. "Why don't you tell me about the Battle of Hogwarts?"_

"Malfoy? The Battle?"

He stared back at her. His mouth was suddenly bone dry. He swallowed hard before trusting himself to speak.

"What about it? It was a Battle. You know how it ended."

"Why don't you take us through what happened, from your point of view?"

He didn't know how else to argue, so instead he fixed his gaze on the warped wood in front of him. As the silence stretched on, Hestia removed a small vial from her pocket and placed it carefully on the tabletop. It was a very thin bottle, made from dark blue glass. She tapped the cork that stoppered it lightly with one finger.

"Veritaserum. I was hoping we wouldn't have to use it, though."

Draco looked at her. He felt like he were being backed into a corner, walls closing around him. There was nowhere left he could run. All he could think about was Hermione, sitting there next to him, her hand resting on the table right next to his own. He couldn't say it. He couldn't bear for her to hear it. He tried one last time anyway, hating how small his voice sounded.

"Why do you want to know?"

"I want to know your conduct," she replied calmly. "Call it part of our profiling. And I want to know why you don't want to talk about it."

She looked around at the others, fixing her gaze on each of them in turn. He noted that her hard eyes did not offer any friendliness as they moved.

"Mr. Malfoy and I have discussed various facets of his involvement with the Death Eaters. Miss Granger, too, has explained certain other details which have clarified the situation somewhat."

He sensed Hermione give a little start beside him. It would have been funny if it hadn't been for the subject matter, and the way the Weasel's face darkened considerably. Potter had the decency to minimise his reaction to a short glance in Draco's direction and away again. Hestia allowed them each to fizzle for a while before continuing.

"However, I can't help but feel that our narratives are slightly disjointed. Which is why I've asked you all to come for this particular talk. Since you were all at the Battle, any points in Mr. Malfoy's story which include any of the rest of you can be validated, and you can compare his timeline of events with your own. From now on, I would appreciate anyone who has additional information to speak up immediately rather than once they've had a few days to think about it."

Hermione ducked her head, and he resisted the urge to speak up in her defence. He doubted Hestia Jones had found herself in quite such a situation as theirs before. Hestia seemed to notice the discomfort at their end of the table, and for a moment her face did seem to soften a fraction.

"I'm not just talking about you, Hermione – it hasn't escaped my notice that these two also escaped from Malfoy Manor due to Malfoy's intervention and said nothing of it to me."

Potter and Weasel had the common sense to look a little sheepish. Hestia returned her calculating stare to Draco, who had made a point of remaining silent, still trying to think of some way to escape her request.

"The fact is, there appear to be certain sympathies between certain parties, shall we say. And I don't want anyone to be under any kind of misconception about you, Mr. Malfoy," she said, her tone flatly cold. "So, why don't you explain what happened during the Battle of Hogwarts. Please."

"What's the matter, Malfoy?" Weasel spoke up as Draco's silence continued. "Cat got your tongue? Maybe he should have the Veritaserum anyway."

"I'll know if he's lying," Hestia replied lightly. "I'm well aware of your experience with Legilimency, Mr. Malfoy, but rest assured, I know when it is being used. So."

Draco glared at her with all the venom he could pour into his gaze. His head was throbbing violently – as it had been doing since he woke up at the end of the movie. He could tell that something wasn't right. He was cold and shivery, his hands shaking, the wound in his chest aching with a deep, stabbing pain which was refusing to recede. He wanted nothing more than to go upstairs and drown himself in Nightshade. God, why did bloody Hestia Jones have to bring the whole Golden Trio into the kitchen with them? If he had to tell her, fine. But he couldn't let Hermione hear it. If she did, everything would change.

"Draco."

He risked lifting his eyes from the table. Hermione was looking at him earnestly, looking at him the way she had used to look at him. The way she'd looked at him in the tent in those few snatched moments in between war and peace. _It's ok. It doesn't matter what you've done. It's going to be ok. I'm here._ But she didn't understand yet. He closed his eyes for a long moment. The throbbing behind his eyes was gradually building, and it wasn't helping. He heard the scrape of wooden chair legs on the ground, heard footsteps, the kitchen tap, and then a glass being placed in front of him. He opened his eyes to find Hermione sitting down again, having pushed a glass of water in his direction. He took it slowly, sipped it. It was ice cold, and it helped.

"Mr. Malfoy."

Hestia's pen was hovering above her notebook.

He took another sip of the water, and wished it was firewhiskey. Then he began to speak.

Of course, Hermione, Potter and Weasel all knew the first part too. The infiltration of Hogwarts. The disastrous encounter in the Room of Requirement, when he hadn't been able to stop Crabbe from blasting _fiendfyre_ everywhere. He should never have followed them up in the first place – he'd thought he would be able to shake Crabbe and Goyle off, but the plan hadn't worked. It had gone bad, like so many other things had. Potter and Weasel agreed and added to his story of events. And so he continued. Until it came to the part he was dreading. And before he knew it, the memories were overflowing behind his eyes and he couldn't even see the kitchen anymore. He could just see grey flakes of ash on the wind. He could hear that high, shrill voice on the wind.

His personal hell on earth was unfolding again before him.

 ** _Then_**

 ** _The Battle_**

"Harry Potter is dead! And now is the time to come forth and declare yourselves."

The silence was thick and fast around them, almost suffocating. And yet, through it, a thin voice spoke breathlessly, eagerly, brimming with excitement. Draco felt his spine stiffen at the sound of it, felt almost as if he were about to be sick. It was an automatic reaction these days. God, he hated that voice. He caught sight of the snake weaving silently between the Dark Lord's bare feet, and his stomach flipped over. The old pain in his shoulder and neck burned briefly again.

"Draco!"

It was his father. Of course it was. His father, standing there, at the very front of the crowd. His mother was at his side, her eyes wide and terrified, her lips pressed tightly together. Draco stared back at her, and it was as if he could feel her mind wrestling with his own, pleading with him to let it go, just come back… And then a different, very real presence pressed against his consciousness and he barely held back a shudder. He shifted his gaze to the twin snake eyes that were fixed on him. A long-fingered hand twirled a long wand lazily. And he knew.

He stepped forwards jerkily, staggering slightly as he made his way over the rubble. He couldn't bear to look back for her, knowing she was somewhere in the crowd beside Weasel, knowing she would be staring at him, that her brown eyes would be burning into his skin. He tried to force his legs to move quickly, but the Dark Lord's arms opened in a hideous welcome, and he couldn't risk disobeying. He slowed to a halt, unable to bring himself to open his hands in greeting, and let the cold, skeletal arms close around him like water over his head.

"Ah, well done, Draco."

His body remained rigid as a board until the Dark Lord stepped away. That pressure was still there, pressing heavily on his mind somewhere behind his eyes. He drove himself onwards, dark spots leaping into his vision, and then felt a desperately grasping hand close over his arm. He let the grip take him away, away to the side, away from the shrill voice still crowing in celebration.

"We're going," his mother's voice breathed tremulously in his ear. "The Portkey – it's still in your desk?"

It took him a long time to understand what she was asking. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to bring up his mental walls once more – the Dark Lord's attention was diverted, anyway. With some effort, he blocked out the last of the Dark Lord's impressions in his head. He blinked and his mother came into sight before him, her white face and her pinched lips, her wild eyes. She shook his arm urgently, trying to draw words out of him. He looked back at her blankly.

"The Portkey?" he repeated dully. "It's no good, it's… he's won, mother. It's over."

She shook her head, glancing huntedly over her shoulder. He followed her gaze to the Dark Lord, who was speaking to someone who had come away from the crowd. Longbottom, of all people. Draco was almost bemused as he watched the other boy square up to Voldemort. It was more than he had ever achieved. His mother was gripping his arm uncomfortably tightly, and he turned to face her once more. Her eyes were red with unshed tears of terror.

"No," she said, her lips barely moving, her face a mask of fear. "Potter's alive."

Draco's mind went blank, as if launched into the eye of the storm with the speed of a rocket. He took in his mother's querulous gaze, her quaking shoulders. The tears were beginning to come free now, rolling down her cheeks in floods.

"The Dark Lord doesn't know," she said, the words ghosting from her lips in a shudder.

And just like that, his heart had thundered into life again. Everything he had ever wanted was suddenly thrown back towards him, suddenly so very possible. The possibility of surviving was so real, so tangible, that adrenaline seemed to generate from the very core of his being. He snatched at her hand, but he didn't need to ask her if she was sure – her terrified face confirmed it. Instead, he put his other hand on her face, wiping fiercely at her tears.

"It's still there," he muttered. "Top drawer. Go now."

"No, no!" she dragged at him, shaking her head. " _We're_ going, Draco."

"No. I can't."

" _Why?_ "

He opened his mouth, and realised that he would never be able to explain. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder and finally caught sight of her, there, at the front of the crowd of students, her hair waving around her face, dirt smeared over her skin. Her watery eyes were fixed on Voldemort, on Potter, on Longbottom. She was there. She was breathing. As long as she was breathing, he couldn't go. He faced his mother, still holding tightly to her hand.

"Because there's still a chance," he whispered.

Before she could speak, he let her go and turned, striding purposefully back towards Voldemort. He didn't know what he was planning to do. His heart was beating in his chest, his blood boiling like madness, and he realised dimly that he had drawn his wand. He caught sight of his Aunt, standing just beside her Dark Lord, her eyes fixed on him. Her wand was lifting, her lip curling. And yet, before he could reach either of them, a series of events happened in very quick succession.

Longbottom beheaded Nagini.

Potter's lifeless body suddenly launched itself out of Hagrid's arms and pelted across the courtyard in a very much alive sprint.

A hellish scream of utter fury billowed out over the mass of people.

And then all was chaos. The two sides rushed at each other, and Hermione's face disappeared into the crowd. Draco shoved his way through the mass of bodies, desperately trying to reach her – or where she had been a moment ago. But there were too many people, too many spells crackling through the air around him. Someone crashed into him and they both fell, both scrambled away from each other. As he tried to rise, still half entangled with the stranger, the people around them seemed to waver and stumble. He felt it himself a second later – an incredible pressure on his brain, a squeezing sensation so abrupt that he almost threw up. As the bodies around them bowed beneath its force he caught sight of the black-robed figure standing tall, snake-like eyes flickering across the crowd, teeth bared in a savage snarl. The hairless head turned slowly, like an angel of judgement, and for one terrible moment Draco thought it had stopped on him. A voice pierced the crackling air, even though the thin lips didn't move.

 _"You lied to me."_

Like a striking viper, robes billowing, the Dark Lord's arm snapped upwards. Draco turned to follow its trajectory. He met his mother's gaze, saw the fear in her watery eyes. She hadn't gone. She was still there, standing where he had left her. Even as he rose to his feet the spell hit its target and her face disappeared behind sudden, blazing fire, fire which swallowed her up like a hungry red mouth. His throat hurt, and yet he didn't know he was screaming, he didn't know he was running. He could hear her screaming, her voice distorting horribly as the fire leapt high into the air, as her body crumpled within it. By the time he reached her, her bones had already crumbled to ash, leaving nothing behind but a dark scorch mark on the stone floor of the courtyard.

He knelt there beside it, staring blankly, one hand still outstretched as if to grasp for her. He wasn't sure what he'd had in mind – was he planning to pull her out of the flames? Or drag himself in to join her? He didn't know. He realised dimly that the fight had resumed around them – perhaps it had never even stopped, not really, not for anyone else. Someone staggered into him and he dropped bonelessly down to sit on the floor as they regained their footing, leapt away. His hands trailed in the dust and ash. Perhaps he should try and salvage it. He felt his pockets. No bottle, no vial, not even a pouch. Nothing to hold the remains. Someone – a body – flew through the air just inches away, slammed into a pillar, dropped to the floor. He felt his body suck in a juddering breath.

After some time, he became aware of a shrill voice screaming. By the time he recognised the voice and turned mutely towards it, it was already descending into a grotesque, gurgling stutter. Among the wild fray, he made out a huge, hunched figure crouched over a feebly struggling body. Long brown hair. Not her, though – no, he recognised the purple hair band. Lavender Brown, was it? Yes. Lavender Brown, covered in blood. His eyes travelled upwards to the familiar, hulking man who was currently devouring her throat with yellow teeth, eyes stretched wide in bloodlust. Fenrir Greyback. Rivers of blood cascaded over his clawed hands and onto the floor. He watched, hands curled in the ash, feeling its grainy particles against his palms.

A flash of red light, and Greyback's head lifted. The spell did nothing to stop him, merely distracted him momentarily. Draco turned his head slowly and took in the girl standing a few paces away, her long dark hair in a plait down her back. She held her wand rigidly, pointing it still at the werewolf, her face tight with forced bravery. Her knees trembled as Fenrir rose to his full height, his attention shifting to this new prey, and a familiar, hideous grin twisted his face. Half wolf and half human, he moved forwards with the air of a predator preparing for a game of cat and mouse, and the girl began to shake violently. Her name flashed into his head. Pavarti Patel. She had a twin sister, who must be around somewhere. She had been in a couple of his Transfiguration classes – she was average with a wand. She would stand no chance. She must realise as much, but still she faced up to the werewolf as he readied himself to pounce.

And, for some reason, the sneer on Fenrir's face awoke some shred of emotion in Draco's hollow body. That fanged grin, that sadistic joy – he had been holding back from wiping it off that monster's face for over two years. And now he had no reason at all to carry on pretending.

He unfolded his crumpled body, made it unsteadily to his feet. He was moving too slowly; Fenrir had already made his attack. Patel tried to dodge him but, as Draco had predicted, his clawed hand snagged in her cloak and tossed her to the ground. Her scream split the air and Draco forced his legs to move. His lips barely moved as he lifted his wand, but the power that blasted out of it raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

 _"Crucio."_

Fenrir flinched violently and whirled around, Patel still held under one huge hand. His eyes searched the duelling crowd before resting on Draco, and surprise entered his gaze. Draco allowed himself a moment to enjoy it. Fenrir reared up to his full height and took a step forwards. Without hesitating, Draco hit him with three hexes in quick succession. None of them had their full effect – Fenrir was too high on bloodlust to feel them – but they slowed him down. Fenrir's fanged mouth gaped wide.

"About time," he snarled throatily. "No more hiding, Malfoy? I've been looking forwards to that blue blood of yours."

Draco didn't waste his breath. He cast _Sectumsempra_ and watched with livid triumph as blood sprayed from Fenrir's stomach. The werewolf shrieked in pain and rage and barrelled towards him. It's huge mass slammed into him and they both went down in a frenzy of snapping teeth and swiping claws. Draco rolled with the blow, ducking away from the lethal claws, and cast another hex. It tore a deep gash in Fenrir's face, but still he wouldn't stop. Draco drove his heel into the werewolf's gut as they landed and managed to slip out from beneath the writhing giant, scrambling to his feet. He threw a glance over his shoulder. Patel was crouched beside Lavender Brown, who was quite obviously dead, her face pale with terror.

"Get out of here," Draco said, and his own voice sounded quiet and alien.

She shook her head, stood up shakily, pointed her wand. Her spell rushed past his head and he heard the grunt as it found its mark – Fenrir hit him a second later, barely registering the blow, and again demolished him. Draco managed to roll onto his back beneath him, struggling, teeth gritted, felt a clawed hand close over his neck. Fenrir's yellow teeth bared and hot, coppery breath rushed over his face. He could dimly hear Patel launching spell after spell at him, but Fenrir didn't even look up. He leaned closer, almost nose to nose. His other massive hand pinned Draco's wand-arm to the ground at his side. The pressure on his throat would have been unbearable at any other time, but now it hardly registered. Draco opened his other hand, which lay ready on his stomach, and silently _Accio'd_ his wand.

"I'm gonna devour you, Malfoy," Fenrir was roaring, his voice wild with rage and drunk with blood. "I'm gonna feast on you for fucking hours!"

Draco pointed his wand upwards, the tip hovering inches from Fenrir's throat. The werewolf didn't even notice. Globs of saliva rained down on his face as it growled.

"Hey, Greyback," he rasped. "Go for it."

Fenrir's jaws opened in a growling bark of laughter – and Draco silently cast _Bombarda._

The effect was instantaneous – the force of the spell travelled upwards through Fenrir's throat and into the back of his skull, which promptly exploded. His roar of victory was drowned in blood and his huge body jerked and spasmed as blood and brains burst from the back of his head. Draco drove his knee up into his side and his body tumbled over sideways. The clouded grey sky came into view once again and Draco sucked in a deep breath as the clawed hand let go, wiped at his face dazedly. Blood and saliva was spattered over his skin. He pushed off from the ground and climbed to his feet beside the shuddering frame of the werewolf. Fenrir's eyes were rolling, blood rushing from his slack jaws – the back of his skull had been blown clean off. Draco gazed at him for a few long moments before pointing his wand at the creature once more.

 _"Avada Kedavra."_

A flash of green light, and it was over. Fenrir's wolfish body became still, and Draco let out a long sigh. He brushed the back of his hand slowly across his cheek, turned away from the sickening sight. Patel was still there, staring at him, her mouth open wide. She flinched backwards as he looked at her, and he let out a short laugh.

"Maybe you should go and hide," he said dully. "There's more where he came from."

And he walked away on trembling legs, buffeted on all sides by warring crowds, his eyes unseeing. He didn't know how much time passed, but he had almost given up hope when he finally caught sight of his Aunt. She was tossing people aside left and right as they rushed at her, cackling wildly, killing curses flung haphazardly about with no particular target in mind. He hadn't realised he had been looking for her until he saw her, but as soon as he did his wandering pace became quick and determined. Fate had a funny way of fucking with him – as he approached, she seemed to fixate on something and raised her wand. He followed the line of her arm and, with a lurch of panic, saw three figures in her line of fire. Potter, Granger and Weasley – somehow still alive – were racing across the courtyard. They were heading for the Great Hall. He knew instantly who Bellatrix would aim for, and without hesitating sent a curse at her back.

She felt it coming, of course – she always did. She span about and blocked him, and her face darkened at the sight of him.

"Well, then, Draco," she smirked. "Finally showing your true colours? I always knew you were a scheming little toe-rag–"

 _"Avade Kedavra!"_

His killing curse veered off course before she could feel it, but he was able to enjoy a flash of shock on her face. She let out a high-pitched laugh.

"Acting like a man at last," she hissed breathlessly. "Shame it's for the wrong reasons."

Her _Cruciatus_ curse hit him square on as he strode towards her, and for a moment his vision blacked out. When the agony lifted he was on his knees, doubled over, and she had turned away. She was pointing her wand, muttering rapidly, energy building at the tip of her wand. She was aiming at the girl with a mane of bushy brown hair who was running up the steps towards the Great Hall, the girl who was the only good thing he had left in the world. Draco forced himself forwards, sent a volley of spells at her, but her outstretched hand stopped them without even turning around. She tensed, and he could almost feel her readying to cast – whatever she was doing, it was going to be bad. He drove himself forwards with everything he had left and, desperate, flung himself in front of her. He gripped her wand arm, tried to force it up into the air, jabbed his own wand into her gut. In his heart, he knew he didn't have the strength left to deliver a killing curse strong enough to stop her –he could not even move her arm. It was stiff as a board, resolute. All he could do was stand before it, trying helplessly to pool everything he had into his wand – but her eyes snapped onto his face. She was angry – angry he was in her way – but then her lips curved savagely and she released it anyway.

"Very well, Draco," she whispered. "Enjoy it."

It was as if a switch and flipped. A sudden, intolerable heat burst into being in his chest, generated from the tip of her wand, and he was jerked into the air. For a moment, everything was weightless and silent. Then he collided with something hard and unforgiving, and darkness crashed over him.

 **~O~**

When he woke, he saw the swirling ceiling of the Great Hall above him. He watched the shifting, smokey clouds, listened to the dull hubbub of chatter. Someone – no, a group of someone's – were singing. A celebration, then. And because there was relative peace around him, he could only assume that Potter had led his followers to victory.

A hand came down on his shoulder, and he blinked hard until the face of his father came into focus somewhere to his left. His father. Alive, smeared with dirt, his hair frizzy and wild, his white, skeletal face pinched with concern. He gripped Draco with both hands, his lips trembling.

"Draco? Draco, you're awake – are you alright?"

He shrugged the hands away, levered himself unsteadily upright. The back of his head throbbed – he must have hit it. But someone had already tended to it – the pain would have been much worse if it had been left alone. His chest was filled with a persistent, painful ache, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He took in the Great Hall. He was in one corner of it, placed aside almost as if on purpose. Before him there were people, some wounded, some not – many wandering about giddily, clutching one another and torn between laughing and crying. All Hogwarts students and Aurors. He dazedly picked out Patel, Longbottom, McGonagall, Shacklebolt – all survivors.

 _It's over,_ he told himself. _It's actually over._

A tongue of fire leapt into his head, and any relief was instantly eaten up by it. He felt hot tears suddenly prick at his eyes and fought to pull a breath into his lungs. It was difficult – his chest was searing now, pain flickering through him incessantly. Arms suddenly wrapped around him, and to his disbelief he found his father's head buried in his shoulder. His father, who was on his knees on the floor of the Great Hall, hugging him hopelessly, and actually sobbing.

"Thank god you're alive," he was mumbling thickly. "I thought I was going to lose you too. I couldn't lose you too, not… not now…"

Draco's brain swarmed with images of fire, and suddenly he couldn't draw breath. His lungs were frozen. Nausea rolled over him in a sickening wave. With violent urgency, he shoved his father away. Without waiting to watch him tumble backwards, Draco dragged his knees beneath him and heaved upright, stumbled, careered into the wall. He clung there, dark spots swirling before his vision. His throat had completely closed now – fuck, he couldn't breathe. He needed air. He could hear his father calling for him, and his quavering voice just spurred him on as he stumbled out of the Great Hall, across the Entrance Hall. He passed a few figures, didn't register their faces. He knew he was weaving from side to side like a drunken lunatic, but he didn't care. He just had to get out.

He made it out into the courtyard and into the air, and somehow his throat seemed to loosen. He was able to suck in a few deep, shuddering gulps of the cool dawn, able to finally blink the world into sight. He was still groggy, but he could see somewhat clearly. The bodies had been removed from the courtyard, but still great, rusty red bloodstains remained. He wondered if they would ever come out. His feet carried him down the steps and through the rubble. He wasn't sure where he was going – it didn't matter. He just needed to get away. He made it out onto the great bridge before his father's hand caught in his jacket and dragged him to a halt. He twisted free, but the motion messed with his head and he had to stop, leaning against the cracked wall. His father stood there, panting, looking at him as if he were a wild beast.

"Draco, stop!" he said, clearly trying to pull some authority back into his voice. "Where are you going?"

Draco wiped a hand across his face. He was shaking, he could feel sweat on his forehead. He closed his eyes for a moment, the stone wall of the bridge a welcome support. His swirling brain didn't give him time to figure out an answer. He hurt all over, and he had no explanations. He just couldn't stay there to face the victorious students, the Ministry, the Order. He needed to crawl into somewhere dark and stay there for as long as it took to remember how to think. His father was still speaking, words tumbling over one another.

"… should sit down, they don't know what curse you were hit with. We're lucky not to be in Azkaban – apparently someone said you deserved a fair trial, we're supposed to wait inside…"

"Wait?" Draco laughed breathlessly. His own voice was hoarse and thin, and he swallowed hard in an effort to resurrect it. "Wait for what?"

His father reached for him again – he brushed the hand off.

"Draco, just…" his father's hands dropped to his sides and he shook his head helplessly. His voice cracked. "Please. Your mother would have wanted-"

"Oh, fuck, don't," Draco gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. He pressed the heel of one hand against his chest, to the spot where the pain seemed to originate from. It hurt, but not enough to eclipse the grief swallowing him whole. "Don't you dare talk about her. She wanted to go, she was going to run…" he forced his eyes open, focussed on his father. "You should have been there. You should have died instead of her."

His father stared at him, his mouth hovering open, his body shaking. He clawed a hand through his hair, shook his head wordlessly. His gaze travelled over the horizon, over the mountains in the dawn. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with tears.

"You shouldn't have gone back to fight."

Draco felt the words slip through him and disappear. He could imagine it so clearly – seizing his mother's hand and Disapparating to the Manor, taking the Portkey, going into hiding for weeks or months. Surviving. What did it matter now? She was dead. He lifted his gaze to meet his father's and felt a mirthless smile twist his face. He turned, took a few heavy steps away. He made it a good few paces before the hand landed on his shoulder once more.

" _Draco!_ Come back here, you're not going anywhere-"

"Get off me."

He felt in his jacket for his wand – it was gone. He gripped his father's wrist instead, squeezing until the hand let him go, threw it away like a poisonous snake. He span around, putting a few paces between them before stopping. His father sagged, his whole frame crumpled with grief. He looked like a broken puppet, or a ghoul, hunched there on the bridge.

"Please, son," he mumbled. "We only have each other now."

Draco stared at him. He shook his head slowly, his hands closing into fists, gathering whatever energy he had.

"No. We have nothing now."

Disapparating without a wand almost killed him. He could barely do it in good health. But the shields had fallen in the battle, and with a rush of air and darkness he was suddenly back in his room at the Manor. The pain was significantly greater now, and he moved about the room in a haze of confusion, throwing whatever he could lay hands on into the first suitcase he found. He gathered whatever possessions he could, but froze before reaching for the top drawer of his desk. His quivering legs carried him across the hall. His parents' bedroom was silent and desolate, the bed untouched. He crossed to the dressing table and clawed open the drawers, rifled through the scarves and earrings and loose gloves until his hand gripped the ornate wooden box at the very back. Only when he had stowed it carefully within the inside pocket of his jacket did he stagger back to his own room, open his desk drawer, and snatch up the small silver hawk. The Portkey launched him into the air, and by the time it deposited him in the tiny shed in the depths of the Scottish mountains, he was unconscious.

 ** _Now_**

When Draco had finished, there was nothing but a thick, relentless silence in the air among them. Hermione sat there, unable to look at him, unable to breathe, her eyes riveted on their entwined fingers. She wasn't sure when she had taken his hand again - at some point during his story, maybe. Her mind was racing, and yet she couldn't process what he was saying. She wanted to believe he was lying, but of course he wasn't. Everything made perfect sense now.

Bellatrix would never have used the curse on a Purebloods. It was for Mudbloods. Like her.

The enormity of what he had done brought home a sickening surge of guilt which threatened to overwhelm her, and she felt tears prickling at her eyes. His fingers squeezed hers slightly, which only served to widen the lump in her throat. She had linked their fingers to try to help him during the re-telling, but he had now ended up trying to comfort her. The constant role reversal was becoming routine. She couldn't even look at him. Hestia was speaking, still with that infuriatingly calm voice.

"And what happened after that?"

Draco took a deep breath. "I stayed in the mountains for as long as I could, but there was nothing there really. I didn't have a wand, I didn't have any food stored. I had some money and clothes packed there, in case of an emergency, but nothing substantive. After a couple of days, I Apparated to Ollivanders. It was still closed up. Luckily, a wand there chose me. Maybe it was just desperate. And then I just… carried on."

"Did you know the Death Eaters were after you?"

"I gathered," he said bitterly. "Killing Fenrir was enough to sign my death warrant with them."

"That's why Pavarti isn't as scared of you, right?" Harry said. "Because you saved her from him?"

"I didn't really do it for her. I wanted him dead-"

She heard a sharp intake of breath from beside him and looked up sharply to find him hunching over himself, his eyes screwed shut. She glanced quickly at Hestia, who was looking at her with an eyebrow arched in a wordless question. She shook her head slightly in response, finally managing to drag herself back into the conversation after the shock of the revelation. Before she could ask him how he was, he was suddenly shifting forwards as if to get up. Her hands hovered over his arm worriedly.

"Draco?"

"Goin' for a smoke," he ground out through clenched teeth, levering himself out of the chair. He shot Hestia a half-hearted sneer. "If I'm permitted?"

She nodded, her face as unreadable as ever. Hermione wanted to tell him to sit down, tell him to forget the bloody cigarettes for a minute, but her mouth was dry and stiff after hearing the story. She couldn't. Instead, she watched him head over the stairs, her eyes trained on his stiff shoulders. He was moving awkwardly, his brow furrowed tightly, one arm wrapped around his injury. She couldn't shake the feeling that he was pushing himself too far, that something bad was going to happen, but she bit her tongue. She doubted he would appreciate her badgering him about his fragility in front of Hestia, Harry and Ron. She could understand his wish to get a couple of minutes out from under Hestia's demanding questions. He disappeared through the door, and she heard his slow footsteps on the stairs. They paused a couple of times before diminishing into silence. She let out a breath she hadn't realised she had been holding and dropped her head into her hands, the lump in her throat forcing itself closer to a sob.

"So," Hestia said conversationally. "I suppose now we have all the pieces of the puzzle."

"Hermione?"

She had to force back the tears burning behind her eyes before she looked up. Harry had moved forwards to sit on the edge of his seat, leaning towards her, his green eyes earnest. She felt again the sob rising in her chest and looked away quickly before it could give her away.

"Hermione, it isn't your fault-"

"Of course it is," she said harshly, keeping her voice as low as she could. "He's in this state because of me. It should've been me – Bellatrix was _aiming_ for me-"

"She was aiming for everyone," Harry protested. "Bellatrix was a lunatic – Malfoy was her own nephew, and even that didn't stop her. Hermione – it isn't your fault."

His words beat against her skull numbly. She closed her eyes against them, still struggling to keep control. She felt like screaming. Finding out what had happened during the Battle had only made the months of silence afterwards more painful. Why, _why_ hadn't she contacted him? Why hadn't he _told_ her? She brushed at her eyes as hot moisture began to escape, tried to force in a deep breath.

"You didn't ask Mr. Malfoy to put himself in your place, Hermione," Hestia added quietly. She was sitting back in her chair, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, her face almost contemplative. "There's no point in blaming yourself. Although, I suppose this explains why the Death Eaters are quite so angry with Malfoy, considering there were so many others who broke ranks during the final Battle."

"You don't actually believe him?" Ron demanded incredulously, finally releasing the tide of words which Hermione had watched build behind his teeth for the last few minutes. "He's making it all up so that you'll let him off!"

"I do believe him, actually," Hestia replied levelly. "His explanation explains the curse, which was the main blank spot in my appraisal. There was no reason for the Death Eaters to cast that particular curse on Malfoy - they tend to be rather traditional, the powerful members especially. Bellatrix, mad as she was, never did anything without having a meaning behind it. Although this explanation makes sense. And, despite collecting accounts from everyone present at the Battle, we have not yet discovered how Greyback was killed. I assume Miss. Patel will be able to confirm or deny the story."

"But - But it's obviously bullshit!" Ron cried. "He's just playing you to-"

"You think you wouldn't react if Voldemort killed your mother?" Hermione snapped back, her voice wobbling fiercely. "You think you wouldn't want to fight?"

"I don't think Mr. Malfoy is 'playing me', as you so eloquently put it, Ron," Hestia said, interrupting before Ron could respond. "Although, of course, any new information from today does not negate that given in previous sessions."

"He killed Greyback," Hermione said, trying to make her voice as firm as possible through the wobbling. "He saved Pavarti - he saved _me._ I'd be like he is now if he hadn't been there."

Hestia stood up slowly from the table, placing her hand on the back of the chair she had been in. "I understand that, Hermione, but his actions during the Battle don't necessarily go beyond anger over the death of his mother. Of course, they will be considered."

She turned her gaze on Harry, who had remained silent throughout the discussion. He looked rather pale, his mouth a firm line, his lip caught between his teeth. He blinked out of his daze and looked up at her as she spoke, wringing his hands uncertainly on the tabletop.

"I'm assuming, since you didn't speak up, that Malfoy's version of events fits with your timeline during the Battle?"

Harry nodded slowly. "I saw him get hit by the curse, I think. Like I said before. I think it fits, chronologically at least."

"Right." Hestia tugged her coat straight. "I will report back to a the board of Aurors to discuss out any concerns. If anything arises in the meantime, owl me."

Harry nodded again. Hermione bit back a scream of frustration as Hestia turned and headed out of the kitchen and into the stairwell beyond. As the door slammed behind her, a stony, violent silence descended on them. Ron's eyes were fixed rigidly on the table, his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed coldly. Harry cleared his throat, looked at both of them uncertainly.

"Well. That... That makes this whole thing make sense, at least."

"It was my fault," Hermione repeated bleakly. "I can't believe he didn't say anything..."

"Hermione..." Harry shook his head. "It's ok. You didn't ask him to-"

"But it happened," she replied tearfully, shooting him a sharp look. "And nothing can change that."

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but the door swung open before he could speak. Hermione looked up, expecting Hestia, but instead saw George making his way into the room, Draco close behind him. She half-rose from the table, stopped, hesitated - but he was coming over to her already, George remaining close beside him.

"Hestia gone already?" George said, glancing around at them all.

"Yeah," Harry said, sitting up a little straighter, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "She had to... to get going."

Dean, Ginny and Luna appeared in the doorway as Draco sat down - Hermione barely noticed them arrive. She inched forward on her seat, resisting the urge to reach for his hand, trying to catch his eye. He looked tired still, his eyes slightly glazed, his face tight, but he smiled at her all the same. His fingers reached for hers, and she shifted instantly to let their hands entwine again. She wished they were alone - they needed to talk. Everything he had just said was too much to simply let pass by. She tried to indicate with her eyes that they should head upstairs, but George was speaking, leaning for the fridge.

"Butterbeer, anyone?"

"If you're buying," Draco replied, glancing over his shoulder.

The others agreed too, and before she knew it, Hermione had been overruled.

 **~O~**

Outside on the front step, he hadn't been able to make his wand work.

He had tried several times, but the place where the magic came from had turned dark. So he had eventually abandoned the cigarette, fuming silently, and made his way back inside. To his relief, it had been George he had seen. George brought a kind of normality, and it was good to feel normal again. Especially after a conversation like that.

He settled into the chair in the kitchen, one hand idly tracing the rim of his butterbeer, the other wrapped in Hermione's grip on the tabletop. He would never admit it to her, but holding her hand in front of Weasel filled him with childish glee. Ron's ears were bright red and his gaze was fixed rigidly on Luna, even though he surely couldn't be interested in her commentary on _Helga Hufflepuff's Horde of Harpies, The Quibbler's_ most recent article. He smiled widely, glanced at Hermione, and realised with a thrill that she was looking at him. She blushed slightly, averted her gaze, and then slid it back over to his face, raising and lowering one shoulder in a shy shrug. He traced the bow of her lips with his eyes, felt a pleasant shiver run through him. Maybe he could suggest that she stayed with him that night. In a non-nursemaid fashion. His smile grew wider and he lifted his mug, tearing his eyes away.

 _"I don't take kindly to people who fuck Mudbloods, Draco."_

The voice ripped into him like a dagger. His reaction was instantaneous – the mug tumbled from his hand, sending tea spattering across the table, his wand was out and pointed in the direction of the voice, his chair shoved backwards. His gaze snapped up to the opposite end of the table, where a tall, impossibly pale figure was sitting regally. Red eyes narrowed and a lipless smile spread over the familiar, skeletal face.

 _"I expected more. Whatever can we do?"_

Draco lurched to his feet, every nerve on edge. His body was trembling violently, his ears filled with a dull roaring. He blinked fiercely, but the figure didn't disappear. It was real. He lifted his wand, his chest growing increasingly tight, cold sweat prickling on his back. Small, pointed teeth bared in a grin.

 _"Oh, come now, Draco. Don't be silly."_

He couldn't breathe. His lungs were frozen, only able to admit tiny sips of air. The whole world seemed to have blacked out but for that figure at the table, the figure who was lifting a long-nailed hand.

 _"Nagini…"_

A shiny, blunt head appeared over the edge of the table, and Draco lost all control. He jerked backwards, the chair flying out from under him, and sent a wild curse at the snake. It made no difference, and the horrible, sleek body wove its way across the table towards him. He stumbled backwards, wand still drawn, until the kitchen cabinet came up against the small of his back. He tried to think of another spell but his mind was blank, his tongue leaden. Shit, he couldn't breathe. Fuck, _fuck._ The snake was coming closer.

"Get the fuck away from me," he managed to force out.

 _"Don't worry, Draco, Nagini's very friendly."_ The pale figure rose to its feet, and a wand emerged from the folds of its robes. _"So friendly, in fact, that she'll see to it that you're reunited with your dear mother in no time."_

Draco tried to aim his wand but his arm wouldn't work. He couldn't breathe. He was beginning to feel dizzy and sick and cold all at once, and the more he struggled to pull himself together, the worse it all got. The red eyes zeroed in on him from across the room and his chest abruptly seared with agony. His throat closed and he felt his knees give out from under him, felt the pain beginning to come at him in waves…

"Draco! _Draco!"_

A faceless silhouette came out of nowhere and seized his wand, trying to wrestle it off him. He couldn't look away from the snake as it reached the end of the table and began its descent towards him. His arms were being held down – it must have reached him, even though it looked to still be advancing. Hands came down on his face, ice cold against his blazing skin, and he flinched automatically.

"Draco!"

He flinched, and as suddenly as it had appeared, the snake was gone, replaced by huge brown eyes and a mass of bushy hair. He was sitting on the floor, crammed into the corner between the kitchen cabinets, and Hermione was practically on top of him. And two other people were there – George Weasley, Potter – both holding onto his arms. He suddenly realised that his wand was out and pointed towards the table – George Weasley was pinning it and his wrist to the cabinet with all his strength. He let go gingerly as Draco relaxed his arm, still watching warily. Hermione caught at him and he looked at her, filled with confusion, his heart still thundering in his chest.

" _Draco_ ," she said fiercely. "You have to calm down, _right now._ Start breathing. Now!"

He recognised the rapid, hyperventilating gasps currently rushing in and out of his mouth and made a conscious effort to slow them. It took some time, but at last he managed to gulp down more air, felt his heart beginning to slow. His head fell back against the cabinet, and Hermione let out a huge sigh of relief and sat back on her heels, still holding onto him gently with trembling hands.

"Alright?" she murmured.

It was only then that he remembered what had caused all the trouble in the first place. Fear lanced into him once more, and he scrabbled desperately up to his feet. George Weasley jerked backwards at once. Potter, to his surprise, snatched at his arm and held him upright – luckily, too, since Draco's legs had turned to jelly. He clutched at the kitchen cabinet for support as he scanned the kitchen, searching for any trace of the snake, or of the robed figure. Nothing. Only Luna Lovegood, Weasel, Ginny Weasley, and Dean Thomas backed up against the opposite wall, wands drawn.

"Malfoy?"

He blinked at the mention of his name. It was Potter. Potter, who for some reason still had hold of his arm. He met the green-eyed gaze currently boring into him, blinked again.

"Malfoy, maybe you should sit down?"

Green eyes, filled with unconcealed, friendly concern. And a jagged lightning scar.

 _"I almost had him! He was in my grasp!"_

Fangs embedding themselves in his shoulder, blood cascading down his neck – he clamped a hand over the old scars reflexively, pulled away from Potter, almost lost his balance. He could feel his breathing growing tight and fast again, and another violent jolt of pain shuddered through him. He clenched a hand over his chest, swore thickly – hands suddenly came down on him and pushed him down into a chair. He doubled over at once screwing his thumb and forefinger into his closed eyes. Jesus, he had no idea if he was dreaming or not. What had happened that day? Was it possible he was still asleep in his room, and not in the kitchen? He pounded a fist against his forehead.

 _Wake up, wake up…_

"Draco?"

The voice was softer now, less urgent. He opened his eyes to find her crouching just in front of him, her hand resting on his knee. He reached for her and almost groaned with relief when his hand was able to feel hers, solid and real. She watched him with concerned, wide brown eyes.

"Are you back with us?" she murmured.

He jerked his head. "Fuck, I don't know," he muttered, horrified to hear how much his voice was shaking. He wet his lips. "Did… Did you see it?"

She glanced up furtively, and he suddenly realised that Potter was standing right beside them, arms folded, brow furrowed.

"See what?"

A sharp twinge in his neck had him flinching again. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something shimmering and scaly move. Fear jittered through him like an electric shock. He shook his head, forced himself to breathe deeply, all too aware of the dampness on his forehead and the way his hands were shaking. His body was still panicking. But she was still there, still rubbing his leg encouragingly, and when he looked up her brown eyes anchored him in reality. He breathed.

"What happened?" he asked eventually.

"Not sure. You just got scared," she said. "You pointed your wand at Harry."

He looked up quickly at Potter, who was simply frowning. The other boy smiled half-heartedly and shrugged.

"Lucky you've got such crap aim, right Malfoy?"

"This isn't a joke!" Ron suddenly spoke up from across the room. "Harry, he could've killed you!"

"What happened?" Hermione pressed on, ignoring him. "What did you see? You looked like you… went somewhere else."

He didn't want to tell her. The shame of admitting it coupled with the embarrassment of being seen cringing at nothing on the kitchen floor was crushing. But he knew he had to explain himself – Weasel's voice had sent an air of tension into the room, and Potter was still looking at him with wary concern. He spread his fingers over his temples, trying to force the thumping pain residing there to subside.

"Nothing," he muttered. "Just… see things sometimes. Things that aren't there."

"What did you see?" George Weasley asked.

"The Dar… Voldemort," he said lamely. "Sitting over there."

He indicated the chair at the head of the table, which Harry had recently vacated. The others turned to look at it, as if expecting Voldemort to leap out of one of the cupboards and start a rampage. Ginny managed a hesitant laugh.

"What, having a cup of tea with us?"

"He was just angry, as usual. And then…"

A jab of pain hit him and he broke off with a gasp. Wide red mouth, white pearly fangs flashed across his mind and he flinched again before he could stop himself. Hermione snatched for his hand and held on tightly, and he tried to remind himself to breathe. His head was beginning to throb in hard, violent lurches, and he began to realise what was about to happen. He forced his eyes open, managed to find her face swimming a few inches away from his own.

"What the fuck is going on?" Weasel's voice was demanding from across the room. "You do realise you just _threatened_ someone, right?"

"Ron, don't," came Harry's voice, a little quieter. "This isn't the time-"

"When the fuck is the time? Are we supposed to just pretend this didn't happen?"

The stabbing pain came again, and Draco noticed with a jolt that he was shaking violently. He reached desperately for Hermione's hand, felt a rush of fear as the pain in his chest began to climb.

"Shit... _shit."_

"Draco?"

She was still there, right beside him. He clutched at her, unable to stop the frantic terror which was beginning to take him over. His breathing was becoming tight and fast, and no matter what he did he couldn't make it even out. A groan escaped him before he could stop it. He was sure the others were still talking, but their voices were melting into a dull roar somewhere above his head. All he could do was try to form words through his clenched teeth, try to communicate to Hermione what was happening. He couldn't bear to let it happen again here.

"We have... have to go..."

"We can't leave anyone alone with him!" someone was shouting, their voice crackling with anger. "He's fucking dangerous, and a Death Eater, and you're _still_ letting him live here-"

"Back off, Ron, for fuck's sake!" That person sounded like George, but an angrier, more impatient George than the one Draco had shared a bottle of whiskey with the other night. "You're acting like a child."

"Me? Whose side are you on? He's not _Fred."_

A dangerous, icy pause. "You better stop talking, Ron. Now."

"Draco? Draco?"

Small hands on his face, lips close to his ear. She was holding onto him, trying to reach him, but he felt like his mind kept dropping out. Darkness swarmed in on him and he fought it back desperately, tried to focus on her, on her brown eyes, her lips, her hands on the side of his neck. He forced his mouth to move, made himself speak.

"Upstairs... please..."

"Hermione? Is he-"

The world suddenly turned on its head, and for a horrible moment he thought it was starting. But then he was impacting with the floor of his attic bedroom - he recognised it at once from the metal leg of the IV stand. He was on the ground, lying on his side, his whole body still twitching violently, but she was there too. Her long bushy hair was swinging around him and her hands were flying over him. He could hear her voice, shrill and panicked.

"Hold on, I'm getting the nightshade, hold on-"

He wanted to tell her that it was too late, that the curse was already starting, but the words didn't make it to his mouth. Before he could even draw breath, agony pierced his chest like a literal knife and he was screaming, curling in on himself, screaming with air he didn't know he had. Again the blackness drove in on him, and when he came back to himself she was there again, trying to get him to drink something. But it was impossible - the pain was everywhere, in his head, in his chest, in his very blood. He couldn't breathe, could not even speak to her to tell her it was going to be alright. He knew it was starting, and he realised that he had forgotten how much it fucking hurt. The last thing he was aware of before the air was ripped from his lungs was her palm against his cheek.

 **Thanks for reading - hopefully the action is hotting up again now. Let me know what you thought!**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

 **Thank you so much for all the kind reviews. It's great to know people are enjoying this - and even translating it into Chinese! Definitely finding it hard to believe anyone would want to take the time and effort to translate my ramblings into another language, but I'm massively honoured and appreciative of it. This fanfic comes from a pretty deep-rooted place in me, and I reckon I use writing a lot as a therapeutic way of sorting stuff out in my head. Bit of a reptile in real life, so I suppose it's cathartic. So many thanks for coming along for the ride and saying such nice things about it.**

 **Also - one review made some good points: '** I'm going to assume you mean Bathilda instead of Bathsheba and hope jigglypuff means Pygmy puff and not that Pokemon has infiltrated the wizarding world. Although I wouldn't put it past the bastards. Hah.' - **Yep, Anon, you are absolutely right. Whoops. I have no Beta, something which is painfully obvious at some times in this fic... But hey, jigglypuff is more fun to say than pygmy puff.**

 **Anywho, note over. Hope you enjoy it!**

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 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

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Draco could see Hermione's long hair spread over the pillow in front of him. The bedroom was dim, but there was just light enough for him to trace the soft, loose curls inches from his hands. It was strange, because he hadn't remembered them going to bed together the night before, but he was too absorbed in the comfort of being so close to her to concern himself over something as trivial as when and how she had got there. She shifted a little, and he moved himself a little closer.

"Are you asleep?" he said softly.

"Yes."

He frowned. Her voice sounded wrong. Like she was pissed off. Had he pissed her off? He couldn't remember doing so. She had found out about the battle – was she angry about that? A distant rustling reached his ears, although he didn't see her move. He reached out and let his fingers trail tentatively through her hair.

"You sure?"

"Go to sleep."

Again, her voice was detached and unfeeling. So unlike her. And even as he raked his brain to figure out what he had done wrong, what had provoked this cold distance, he realised suddenly that the voice had not even come from her. It had come from somewhere below them. But that was ridiculous, it had been her voice… hadn't it?

From below came the unmistakable slither of scales against hardwood floorboards.

His brain leapt into overdrive and he froze with sheer terror. He couldn't move. All he could do was grip the pillow, her hair still caught under his fingers. She didn't move at all, eerily still. He noticed that the skin of her neck was discoloured. Bloodless, the faintest hint of black veins. And as his heart began to pound with earnest, he heard something moving beneath the bed, emerging, sliding out from below him. He wanted to dive for his wand, but his panicking mind had rendered him completely immobile. He stared in fascinated terror, waiting for it to come into sight. It was emerging from her side of the bed, and he suddenly knew with absolute certainty that there wasn't just one 'it' – they were everywhere – they were coming out of the floorboards, the drawers, the mattress…

 _Fuck – Hermione – Fuck –_

Something stung sharply in his arm and he flinched, tried to sit up, and found that his vision instantly blanked out. His body crumbled around him in a haze of noise and motion, and it took him a long time to recognise the feeling of a hand on his shoulder. He knew with abrupt certainty that he had just taken a lurch towards consciousness, that waking up beside Hermione a second ago hadn't been real, but the sheer panic that had taken root in his skin refused to recede. He could feel sweat crawling down his back like ants, feel his whole body trembling violently. He couldn't focus on anything for long enough to pull himself together.

"Draco? Draco?"

He swallowed hard, tried to speak, managed a croak. His voice wouldn't work. The hand, surprisingly gentle, squeezed his arm and let go. The pinch came again, this time in his hand, and then dulled to insignificance. He tried unsuccessfully to pull away, froze as his chest exploded with pain in response.

"It's fine, it's ok," the voice said. "You're ok now."

He trusted that voice inherently, even if he couldn't quite name it. Either way, he knew that the person who was currently pushing his sweat-soaked hair out of his face and trailing their fingers across his collarbone was a friend. More than a friend – it was the person he needed. He wished he could get closer to her, sink into the security of having his arms around her, but his body wouldn't respond to his commands. His chest seared as he tried, again, to sit up – the soft, careful hands pushed him back down as firmly as they dared.

"Shh, it's ok, you'll be ok."

"Is he awake?"

"No…" A pause. Her hands moved over him, rested briefly on his forehead. "No, I don't think so."

 _"Filthy fucking mudblood…"_

He jerked violently. The thin, hissing voice had been right in his ear, and instantly he broke out in gooseflesh and terror. It was real, and yet it couldn't be. Voldemort was dead, and yet still he was terrified. But then the hands were back, stroking his face, resting on either side of his neck as if holding him steady, and he had to trust them. They were his only connection with the world.

"Hermione?"

"He's ok. Aren't you, Draco? Just breathe. Please, just breathe…"

Her fingers ran over his chest. He moaned as a violent twinge pulled through his body. He felt as if his soul was about to be pulled out of him. Maybe this was what it felt like to be cornered by a Dementor. He tried to open his eyes and only saw darkness.

"He's burning up."

"What do you want to do?"

"Nothing. Nothing will work." Her voice broke slightly, wobbling with emotion, but when she spoke again she had composed herself. "I'll just stay here with him. He'll be ok."

Her hands vanished for a moment, and then a cool, damp, heavenly feeling came into contact with his forehead. He leaned into it, unutterably grateful. He could almost feel his skin sucking up the cool moisture. The surface he was lying on dipped slightly, and he was acutely aware of her presence. She was giving him the relief, she was offering him the rock to lean against. He wanted more than anything to curl himself around her, but his body wouldn't move. It was shaking around him like a leaf about to be torn from the branch of a tree. With all the strength he had left, he lifted his hand and reached for her. He seemed to be reaching into eternity, into emptiness, but then suddenly her skin came into contact with his. His voice finally returned to being.

"He calls for you like that a lot, huh?"

"Yes."

Her voice was quiet, restrained. There was a pause in which he tried to remember how to breathe properly. Her fingers curled around his – they were definitely her fingers, he was sure of that much – were helping.

"You need me to get you anything?"

"No, thanks, George. I don't know what I can do to help him."

Her voice shook – she sounded upset, more than upset, and he hated that. He wished he could at least just see her but he still couldn't see anything, couldn't even tell if his eyes were open or shut. Despite how much everything fucking hurt, he could feel frustration building at his inability to get to her. He tried to squeeze her hand – his fingers jerked uselessly, but she squeezed him back.

"Hermione, we'll find something. I'll help-"

"We need _real_ help, we're all just students. I just can't…" She trailed off, sighed heavily. "Never mind. Are you ok? Don't listen to Ron, he's just being… you know."

"I'm fine," the other voice said, laden with exasperation. "I grew up with him, remember? He's just throwing a hissy fit."

"Yeah. I just wish he would try to-"

A sudden lightning flash of agony roared through him and he heard himself make a violent, hoarse sound, felt his whole body twist in on itself. His throat closed at once, his limbs froze rigidly. He tried to shrink away into the darkest corner of his mind, knowing that whatever was about to happen was going to hurt like hell, but to his dizzy relief the pain receded before it could become a full attack. He came back to himself slowly, recognising the sweat on his skin, the tremors rolling over him, the hands pressing against his face.

"… breathe. Draco, Draco, come on, breathe, please… Please, Draco…"

"Is he…?"

"I think it's stopping. Draco?"

He wanted to reply, but his teeth were clenched too tightly. He couldn't speak, couldn't unlock his jaw. But she seemed to understand, because her fingers were passing gently through his hair and he could feel his body relaxing bit by bit. His neck released, his stomach unknotted, his legs relaxed, and eventually even his jaw seemed to let go a little. His lungs unfroze, and sweet air rushed into him in great, heaving gulps.

"God, Hermione."

The voice held all the weary trepidation he felt himself. He wanted to wholeheartedly agree with it, but he was already slipping away. He couldn't feel his arms and legs anymore. Indeed, the last sensation he was aware of was the soft hands wiping the sweat from his face. Quite suddenly, just as he was dropping off – he admitted it could have been a dream – lips dropped against his cheek. And, before he knew what had happened, he was asleep.

 **~O~**

She had forgotten how horrific the curse was when it took full effect. Almost as soon as they had appeared in the attic room, he was screaming. It had shaken her the first time, and her reaction was no different the second time. She had reached for the nightshade, but it was too late. All she could do was kneel beside him, trying to prevent him from hurting himself as the seizure rolled over him in waves. The wound started bleeding and smoking as it had before, soaking quickly through his sweatshirt – she pushed it up and scrambled to reach for enough bandages to stem the flow. After what seemed like an eternity he finally became limp. Only then she had to wait for him to start breathing again, and somehow that was worse.

She was able to check the wound while he was out, but she wasn't offered much comfort. It seemed to have grown wider, and the black-streaked blood was still leaking out of it at a rate she wasn't happy with. She pulled the blood-stained sweatshirt off and wrapped a fresh bandage around him with some difficulty, his unresponsive body extremely disconcerting. She got him up onto the bed, pulled the blanket up over him, and found herself faced with a heavy, defeated silence.

It was her fault.

She reached blindly for his lifeless hand. It wasn't like last time, though – he began to move as if he was dreaming, or rather having some kind of nightmare. She tried to wake him up to no avail. He didn't seem to be able to hear her. George came up briefly to check on them, but she could tell that he was distracted by the row with Ron, and he didn't stay long. She wasn't sure if his voice had an affect on Draco, but for some reason he seemed to grow still again shortly afterwards, leaving her alone to wait. She felt like all she did now was wait.

She had fallen into a kind of routine now. She would pace the room. She would sit at the window. She would feel for his pulse to reassure herself that he was still breathing when he looked too motionless. And therefore, she sensed the change in his breathing without even realising it – she found herself turning sharply towards him a couple of moments before his head moved on the pillow and his eyebrows twitched. Her heart leapt and she moved forward, crouched down beside the bed. She glanced at her watch. It was 01.48am. His grey-blue eyes flickered open and roved briefly across the ceiling before settling on her. She reached for him, linking her fingers tentatively through his.

"Hey," she murmured. "How're you doing?"

"Mmh." His eyes flinched shut in a brief wince. "Peachy."

"Does it hurt?"

He just offered a tired, humourless smile, which made her heart jerk in her chest. She ran her fingertips across his knuckles. She was trying to formulate the rest of her thoughts. She wanted to talk to him – really talk – but at the same time she was worried about pushing him too far when he was fragile. He closed his eyes again, and she watched, uncertain about whether he had fallen asleep.

"Did we get out'a the kitchen before…?"

It took her a moment to figure out what he was asking. "Yes, yes – no one saw. I Apparated us up here."

"Thanks."

"It's nothing. Hestia should never have forced you to–"

"Hestia's doing her job," he muttered. "She's paid to force things."

"Draco, listen…"

"Don't."

She stopped, the words hovering on the edge of her tongue. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, his brow furrowed.

"I know you're going to ask about the Battle. I didn't want you to find out. I didn't want you to…to feel fucking responsible or guilty or…" he gestured vaguely, sighing through his nose. He let his hand drop. "You don't owe me anything, Hermione, so stop bloody looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

He opened his eyes, squinted up at her. "Like that, obviously."

She frowned back at him. "So, you want me to just pretend I don't know? Pretend nothing happened?"

"Isn't that what we do?"

She wasn't sure if he had meant to speak harshly – perhaps it was just because his voice was hoarse and rough – but it still hurt. She closed her mouth, rose to her feet, and automatically folded her arms. He seemed to recognise her silence as an indication that she did not appreciate his comment, sighed, and screwed his hands into his eyes.

"If it hadn't been Bellatrix, if it hadn't been the curse, it would've been something else," he elaborated wearily. "I was a walking target that day. I was always going to get a death sentence."

"So what, it was just a coincidence that Bellatrix was aiming for me at the time? And don't say death sentence."

"Why not?"

She could feel her temper beginning to prickle. She couldn't understand why he always felt the need to push her. And now was most definitely not a time to get into an argument. She forced herself to remain calm, tried to keep her voice steady as she replied.

"Because we're going to work something out. I told you-"

"Have you found anything yet?"

"Draco…"

"Have you?"

She glared back at him. Even lying there, his skin pale, hair streaked with sweat, he still somehow managed to pour a simmering intensity into his gaze to meet hers.

"Bits and pieces. There'll be something."

"See?" he lifted himself onto his elbows, sucked in a short gasp of pain, squinted at the bedside cabinet. "There's nothing, Hermione. It's fine."

She couldn't help the anger that leapt up like a fire behind her eyes. His commitment to giving up was infuriating. She could only surmise that for some reason he thought he deserved all this. She opened her mouth to challenge him on it, but his attempts at sitting upright were proving extremely unsuccessful. His arms were shaking violently and the pain in his face made her stomach clench. Her angry words died in her throat and she shook her head, reached out for his hand. He took it with an uncertain glance, and she pulled him up, wincing at the muffled, painful sound he made. Careful not to disturb the IV line, she climbed up onto the bed and slipped in behind him, letting him lean against her. He didn't protest, and she retrieved the nightshade from the bedside table and handed it to him.

She could feel the tension in him, a trembling stiffness that had taken hold of his whole body. She wrapped an arm around him as he drank a large dose of the nightshade, took it back from him when he lowered it. She was about to get up again, but the intimacy of his body against hers was diffusing her anger, and that had to be a positive thing. So she leaned back against the headboard and let him settle against her, counted his shallow breaths beneath her hands. He had been running a fever since the last attack, and she could feel the heat coming off him now.

"I think it's getting worse," he said, his voice a little more lethargic from the nightshade. "Did Slughorn… say two weeks?"

"Two to four," she corrected, her voice small.

"Oh, good."

She scowled at his weary sarcasm. "Draco, why did you take that curse for me?"

He shifted against her, and his forehead leaned into the crook of her neck. His body tensed and he swallowed back a whimper, took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice remained quiet.

"You know why."

"Then you know why I can't just let this go."

He huffed. "Jesus, you're so stubborn."

"Me?"

She ran one hand through his hair, noting worriedly that it was slightly damp with sweat. She let her hand rest briefly on his forehead, trying to gauge how high his temperature was. Hotter than it should be. She wondered if muggle pain relief would have any effect on the curse, but somehow doubted it. The IV line seemed to be working as it was a physical intervention – spells and potions were all based on chemical imbalances, albeit in a more complex manner than muggle remedies, and her research thus far had indicated that the curse would be able to rapidly overcome any such attempts. He was right that she had, so far, completely failed to come up with any kind of solution.

"Draco?"

"Mmh?"

"Does your father know?"

Draco was silent for a moment. "He sent me a letter telling me he was going to Eastern Europe and to contact him. I wasn't interested."

"Maybe we should get in touch with him? You know, considering…"

Draco just shook his head. She thought better of pursuing the subject, but filed it away in her head for later. As much as she hated to imagine it, she thought it only right that he had the chance to reconcile with his father should things become worse. But she couldn't bear to imagine that. His breathing was laboured and shallow beneath her arms, but his hand which had settled over hers was beginning to grow slack. She nuzzled against his head.

"Draco?"

"Mm."

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you. You know that, right?"

"Mm."

He sounded tired, and she doubted he had even heard her. She peered over his shoulder to check the wound, and noted with a flicker of fear that the blood was beginning to spot through the gauze she had secured over it a few hours earlier. It still hadn't stopped bleeding. She managed to manoeuvre so that her hand could apply a light pressure on it. He winced, but he seemed to be asleep. She settled back, resolving to try to rest herself.

 **~O~**

He felt considerably worse after the most recent attack. Maybe it was the fact that his head was pounding constantly, that the migraine throbbing in his temples made it hard to see. Or maybe it was the fact that he couldn't move without getting tired and shaky. Or that the ugly wound on his chest jabbed him with near constant pain. There was a kind of leaden weight in his limbs that made him feel he had taken a very definite step towards however this curse was going to end. The whole world around him was muted, distant, always either too sharp or too dull to understand. Having her close to him helped – which was part of the reason why, when she unfolded herself from the bed behind him and stretched, he did his best to get up too.

"I'm only going down to the living room, I need to put some of these books back and see if I can find anything else. I think there was one more that might be of use, but I can't remember where it is…"

"I'll come with," he said, hating the way his voice trembled as he tried to sit upright.

"No, Draco, you should stay up here-"

"Hermione – I'll come."

She stopped, frowning at him. He wasn't sure if he had spoken too brusquely, but he couldn't help it. The attic room had begun to feel more and more claustrophobic over the last few days, and considering how terrible he was feeling after the last attack, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was going to die in it. And no matter how much he pretended he didn't care, the thought of dying alone in the tiny attic room terrified him.

She must have understood at least part of everything going through his head, because she stopped pushing the subject and simply nodded. She slid the IV needle out of his hand and taped a ball of cotton wool over his hand – he shot her an arched eyebrow, but managed to keep his comments to himself. She put her arm around his waist and he leaned on her as they straightened – his chest seared at once, and he bit back a moan. The floor seemed to move beneath him. But he managed to hold onto consciousness, and as soon as they Apparated downstairs and appeared in the living room she deposited him on the sofa. He sank back, finally able to breathe again, and by the time he opened his eyes she had already finished bringing the rest of the books down. She shot him a concerned and pointed look as she set the pile down on the small table in the corner.

"So, one more book to try?"

She scowled. "In this library, but there are other, far more extensive collections."

"What, more extensive than the Black collection?" he scoffed. "Don't know if you heard about them, but they were pretty into their dark magic."

"Do you want to be here or not?"

He shot her a smile, and was pleasantly amused to see her cheeks flush slightly. He watched her move to and fro across the room, putting books back on their shelves from her pile on the table. There was a _Prophet_ slung across the table too, and he found himself wondering what was even happening in the outside world. He felt as if he had been in a bubble for months. He felt in his pocket for his wand and tried to _Accio_ it silently, not really expecting it to work. It didn't. He tried to ignore the failure and pointed his wand again.

" _Accio."_

The pages did not even flutter. A thrill of panic ran through him like a jolt of static. He lowered his wand quickly, but Hermione had already looked up. She glanced from him to the paper and back.

"What is it?"

He considered lying, but there was little point. He lifted his wand again, this time letting her watch.

 _"Accio."_ Again, nothing. He didn't even feel anything. He wet his lips. " _Lumos."_

His wand remained unlit. He lowered it slowly, set it down on the sofa cushion beside him. A brief, tense silence hung between them. He felt like someone had just sliced one of his arms off. He sniffed, rubbed his eyes, the light from the window doing nothing for his aching head.

"Magic's been on the glitch recently," he explained heavily, his voice flat. "Can't even…"

He trailed off with a shrug, heard footsteps. He lowered his hand to find Hermione crouching in front of him, her hand on his knee. She was looking up at him earnestly, her brown eyes welling with concern. She had brought the _Prophet,_ which she placed next to him gingerly, as if worried that any noise made would send him into a frenzy.

"It's fine," she said emphatically. "It's probably just because you're tired. It'll come back once you're better."

He didn't have the energy to argue with her. Instead he just offered her a short nod and leaned his head back against the sofa, closing his eyes. She squeezed his knee before letting go and moving away across the room. He couldn't shake the sense of fear. He'd never before been unable to produce magic. The curse was taking everything away from him, and now it had even taken his ability to protect himself. He knew she was trying to reassure him, but at this point, 'better' really didn't feel like an option.

But, for some reason, she was doggedly keeping hope. So he held his tongue.

He picked up the _Prophet._ He flipped through the first few pages, but reading made his headache worse and he was feeling tired already. Eventually, he just put the newspaper down again and slouched on the sofa, watching her through slitted eyes. She finished putting her books back and began to hunt about for the book she had mentioned earlier, checking under tables and on top of bookcases. She at last found the volume she had been after propping up one of the chairs, which had sustained an injury to one of its legs. She swapped it out for another book and headed over to sit beside him on the sofa, already scanning the first few pages with a serious frown.

"You want to go back upstairs?"

He shook his head. "We can stay here for a bit."

She was already reading. He felt a chill run through him and suppressed a shudder. He couldn't tell if he was hot or cold – his skin was constantly breaking out in gooseflesh and shivers ran in constant streams down his back. He wished he'd brought the Nightshade down with him, but he was barely staying awake as it was. He listened to Hermione turn the pages of the book and scribble on her scrap of paper, tried to forget about the dizzying pain rolling through him with every breath.

He couldn't tell if an hour passed or just five minutes, but he opened his eyes to the door opening and blinked hard to bring Potter's scruffy black hair into focus. The other boy caught sight of them and came into the room, his gaze pausing on Draco. His eyes widened slightly and he shot a quick glance at Hermione. Draco took that as an indication of just how crap he must currently look, and lifted a hand to push his hair back in a half-hearted attempt to look more presentable. He tried to concentrate on what Potter was saying, tried to sit up a little straighter.

"… would've been upstairs?"

"Wanted a break from the attic," Hermione said. "I thought everyone was out today?"

"Yeah," Potter said, shrugging. "I came back from Hogwarts early. Wanted to check on you."

"Potter, you're too sweet," Draco muttered.

Potter rolled his eyes. "How're… things?"

Draco got the distinct impression he was trying to ask Hermione how bad it was without letting Draco in on the conversation, and narrowed his eyes at the other boy. He refused to be excluded from a discussion of his own wellbeing.

"Fine," he said flatly. "More to the point, how's Hestia? Caught any Death Eaters yet?"

Potter sat down on a nearby armchair, glancing with interest at Hermione's notes. He looked at Draco again, and his gaze again turned worried. Draco squirmed under it, hating it. He wasn't exactly sure where he and Potter stood now. He had, after all, done what the Golden boy had asked and answered Hestia's questions the other night – Potter had been there to see for himself. Although he still failed to see how his recollection of the Battle was supposed to help them catch Death Eaters now. He wished he could see a mirror, just get an idea of what was making Potter look at him as if he was about to keel over. In all honesty, he didn't feel far off it, but getting pity stares was still an alien experience for him.

"They've gone into hiding," Potter said. "Hestia's team have tracked down all their suppliers, and no one has heard from them for ages. We think they're waiting for Hestia to relax surveillance on them."

Draco sniggered tiredly. "Don't be ridiculous, Potter, that would suggest common sense."

"Do you know who they are?" Hermione asked suddenly. "Have you talked about it with Hestia?"

Draco hesitated, the smirk wiped off his face. She had never asked him about that before, leaving it to Hestia to interrogate. But he didn't want to lie to her, and there was no reason to really. He wet his lips.

"Don't know exactly who survived. Hestia's right that one of them is Travers – he never was very good at disguising his voice. As for the others…" he shrugged.

"Hestia had a list," Potter pressed. "Of all the Death Eaters not found after the Battle."

"Yeah, and I'd say it's pretty safe to assume that Travers doesn't go far without Selwyn," Draco said humourlessly. "They were kind of a pair."

"They didn't try to get in touch with you? Recruit you?" Hermione asked.

Draco shook his head. "They knew. If they didn't see me kill Greyback, they would've heard about it from other witnesses. Or they saw the Dark Lord kill…"

He broke off sharply, an unexpected lump rising in his throat. He blinked, looked away quickly, furious at the sudden rush of emotion. He had to assume it was just his usual defensiveness being lowered by the incessant pain in his chest. It was making it hard for him to focus. By the time he had wrestled himself back under control, he was relieved to find that Hermione had started talking to cover his sudden silence.

"… why they'd even bother," she was saying. "I mean, what do they have to achieve now? Voldemort's dead."

"Revenge, mostly," Draco said. "This is what they lived for, remember? They won't want to accept it's over. So they'll keep trying to assassinate Potter, but they'll never be able to rally enough support to actually do it."

"They haven't tried yet," Potter said. "That's what I don't understand."

"You've got half the Ministry's Aurors dropping in on you every day," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "Of course they haven't tried. They'll just keep making random attacks on muggles or half-bloods, trying to make it seem like they're keeping the dream alive."

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Hestia will catch them. They can't run forever."

Draco just shrugged wearily. Hermione shuddered, as if shaking the subject off, and asked Potter about Hagrid. Draco let himself tune out of the conversation, feeling his eyes growing tired. It was good to listen to her lilting voice – something Potter said even made her laugh. Her hand dropped onto his knee and remained there casually. He would have been enjoying himself more if the smell of burning hadn't been steadily filling the air, growing stronger with each passing second. It was obvious that the others hadn't noticed it at all. He cracked his eyes open again, squinting around the room, searching for the source of it. Hermione and Potter went on chatting, their voices slightly distant. And yet it was only when a flicker of fire appeared in the doorway that he realised what was happening. He felt his body stiffen at once, felt his hands clench. If he leaned back on the sofa, he could just see out into the corridor. His stomach lurched as he took in the humanoid figure standing there, just in sight, flames liking over blackened skin. It wasn't moving – it was simply standing there. Even though he couldn't see its eyes, he felt like it was watching him. His skin crawled, and he could feel his heart beginning to pound rapidly. Again, it didn't seem to be threatening, exactly – something about it almost seemed comforting, kind… And yet when it suddenly moved and began to move forwards into the room, he still felt terrified.

It walked slowly, and the fire rushing over its body left no mark on the walls. And yet he could feel the heat of it, smell burning hair. His head was beginning to ache, a steadily building pain which was mirrored in his chest. He tried to keep his breathing even but the fear was like a wave breaking over him. The more he tried to keep it in check, the more it seemed to grow. The flaming figure walked slowly past the other sofa and stopped in the middle of the room. Its head turned towards him. He couldn't help but stare at it, couldn't drag his eyes away. The heat of the flames rushed at him and he forced himself to remain still. It was taking everything he had not to get the hell out of the room.

"Draco? Draco?"

Hermione's hand was on top of his. He blinked, glanced at her. He had the feeling she had been trying to get his attention for a while. He tried to figure out what she had said, but again his gaze was drawn towards the burning silhouette standing just a couple of meters away.

"Draco, are you ok?"

He nodded. Any words he might have used to reply had withered into nothing on his tongue. He could hear his own breathing quickening and tried to regain control. Beside him, Hermione shifted forwards a little and moved into his line of sight, reaching out to brush her fingertips over his cheek. He managed to look at her again. Her brown eyes were glittering with quiet concern.

"You sure?"

He could only guess how freaked out he must be looking to make her that worried. He looked back at the thing, which was still standing there quietly, and realised that Potter had risen to his feet and taken a step towards them. He did not want a repeat of his previous hallucination in the kitchen. He closed his eyes tightly, made himself count to four on each inhale and exhale, his heart hammering faster. But when he opened his eyes, the fiery vision was still there.

"Draco?"

Hermione's cool hand was against his forehead, and he felt the panic ease slightly. She was frowning at him.

"Your fever's getting worse," she said softly. "Are you seeing things again?"

He could hear her, could feel Potter staring, but he couldn't look away from the fiery figure, the two bloodied eye sockets boring into him… Hermione's fingers wiped at his cheek, and he realised with a lurch that his eyes were prickling. He blinked furiously. She ran her fingers through his hair until he looked at her. She was steady as a rock, holding onto him, grounding him.

"It's not real, right?" she said. "It's not really there. I promise."

He swallowed hard, managed a jerky nod. The figure shimmered a little, almost like a reflection in a pool of water. He felt that if he could only keep himself from looking at it again, it would disappear. He stared determinedly at Hermione, concentrated on her brown eyes, her golden skin, her frizzy hair standing apart from her face in an unruly mane… The next time he blinked, the figure had gone. He chanced a hesitant glance over his shoulder, but it was nowhere in sight. He heaved a sigh of relief and Hermione let him go slowly.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"It's fine," she said instantly. "You ok?"

Potter returned slowly to his chair and sat down again, still watching them with concern that made embarrassment curl in Draco's stomach. He cleared his throat, brushed the back of his hand across his face – he could feel hot droplets of sweat. He levered himself to the edge of the sofa and stood up. The world swung violently and Hermione's hands were on him in an instant, holding him steady. He held up his hands, wordlessly indicating he could stand.

"Going t'the toilet," he said, his voice thin.

"Draco-"

"It's across the hall," he protested.

She hesitated, but let him go. He took a deep breath and made his way across the room, his vision swimming violently. He reached for the doorframe, leaned on it for a moment, and then made it out into the corridor, their eyes on the back of his neck.

 **~O~**

"So…"

Hermione tore her gaze away from the ajar door and glanced back at Harry, who had also got to his feet. His eyes were wide and uncertain behind his wire rimmed glasses, and he was picking awkwardly at his nails.

"… how're things, really?" he asked softly.

"You saw him," she muttered, dropping back onto the sofa dejectedly. "It got worse after last night."

"How bad?"

"It won't stop bleeding. His temperature's been getting higher. And I can't find _anything,_ all these books, they're _useless._ "

She slammed the one on her lap shut, tossed it aside. Her hands clenched in her hair. Now that he was out of the room, it seemed her frustration and helplessness finally had an outlet. She felt like screaming. She heard Harry move over to her and felt the sofa dip as he sat down next to her.

"Hermione-"

"It's not getting any better," she whispered. "There's nothing I can do."

"But last night – I mean, Hestia must see him in a better light now, right?"

"She's not _doing_ anything, she just left. And Slughorn hasn't replied to any of my letters since he came the first time." She shook her head. "I just can't stop thinking about how it's all my fault."

"It's not-"

"It is, Harry, don't bother." She wiped furiously at her eyes. "And now I'm going to have to just… just _sit_ and watch him…"

Harry's arm came around her shoulders, and she leaned against him, grateful for the comfort. His hand moved up and down her arm and his voice was steady and reassuring.

"I owled McGonagall last night. She replied this morning – she's going to ask around the academic circles she knows, see if anyone has studied this thing."

"Thanks." She tried to steady herself, tried to remove the wobble from her voice. "What happened last night, anyway? Ron seemed pretty angry."

"He is. Think he's just feeling a bit outnumbered – some people have warmed up to Malfoy a bit, and he feels betrayed."

"This isn't _about_ him."

"No – but we both know that Ron doesn't break grudges easily. Remember how he didn't speak to me for half of fourth year?"

She couldn't help but giggle. Harry let her go, apparently satisfied that her mood had improved. She pushed her hair back out of her face, wiped quickly at her eyes, made sure she had it together before Draco returned.

"It would be good if you two could talk," Harry added hesitantly. "I mean – I know now isn't a good time. Maybe… I don't know."

"No, you're right," she said, sighing. "We should."

"I know he's being an idiot, but he does care about you. You know that, right?"

She opened her mouth to reply, but then found herself abruptly interrupted by a muffled crash from beyond the door. She leaped to her feet as if she had been electrocuted, Harry rising sharply with her. She made for the living room door, her heart in her mouth, her nerves prickling with fear. She barrelled out into the corridor to find Draco curled on his side on the ground. He had taken out a vase on his way down, and soil was spread over the floor, tiny vines wiggling free. She crouched beside him, taking hold of his arm. He was shaking violently, almost like he did during a seizure, and when she pulled him over she saw his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Droplets of sweat were rolling down his face and neck, and she could feel the blazing heat of his skin through his t-shirt. She felt for his pulse desperately, and didn't know whether to be relieved or not at the heavy, rapid beats against her fingertips.

"Draco? Draco, can you hear me?"

His head rolled towards her but he was still shuddering violently, his jaw locked. His flickering eyes roved but didn't see her.

"Draco, it's ok…"

"Is it the curse?"

She shook her head, realising that Harry was just beside her for the first time. She felt for his chest to make sure, but the bandages, although damp with sweat, were only spotted lightly with blood.

"No," she murmured. "I think it's the fever. It's climbed really quickly."

She could feel her body panicking around her. It was a strange sensation – like watching an earthquake from within a conservatory. She tried to pull herself together, tried to focus on Draco. He needed her – she couldn't cave in now.

"Would a potion help? Do you need me to find something?"

"But I don't know if it'll work, I don't…"

But even as her fear began to ramp up, he made a noise in the back of his throat and blinked hard. His body still trembled and shuddered, but she could see him straining to bring her into focus. She leaned forwards and his half-lidded, silvery eyes finally seemed to recognise her.

"M'ok," he mumbled.

"Could've fooled me," she said, trying to lighten the situation. Her claw-like grip on his hand gave her away.

"You broke my vase, Malfoy," Harry spoke up, rescuing her. "You better pay me back, that was an antique. Been in the family for generations. Probably."

Draco squinted at the shards of ceramic on the floor nearby and huffed. "Did you a favour, Potter, that vase was disgusting. N-no… sense of style."

"Right," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "Come on, how about we get you off the floor?"

Hermione tried to pour as much gratitude as she could into the look she shot Harry as he took hold of Draco's arm and pulled him upright. She took his other side, trying to catch his gaze. She could see him trying to take his own weight, but his legs were shaking and unsteady.

"Hermione? I'll take him, yeah?"

She looked quickly at Harry, who had pulled Draco's arm across his shoulders. She hesitated, but she knew he was able to carry Draco better. Reluctantly, she nodded. Harry offered her a brief smile before they both disappeared with a sharp _crack._ She turned and hurried downstairs to the kitchen, relived not to run into anyone on the way. She rooted through the cupboard until she found a jug, filled it with water, and tapped it with her wand to chill it. She snatched up a fresh glass and then made her way back upstairs. She was breathless by the time she got to the attic. She paused for a moment outside, gathering herself. She could hear voices inside.

"Just sit down-"

"Just bloody _unhand_ me, Potter!"

"I have, just-"

She shoved the door open with her shoulder, armed with the jug and glass. Harry's face seemed to visibly clear with relief – he was standing in front of Draco, who was attempting to get up from the bed. His eyes, hollowed in his head, turned on her.

"Sit down, Draco," she said.

She put the jug and glass down on the bedside table, and then crossed the room to the chest of drawers which still had the potions kit on it from the first night. She rooted through it until she found a simple Pepper Up potion – it was worth a go. She turned back to Draco and held it out. He had sat down, doubled over, one arm wrapped tightly around his chest, his face tight with pain. He saw the bottle and shook his head.

"It won't work-"

"Just try it."

He rolled his eyes but took it, his hand shaking violently. She looked up at Harry, who was hovering awkwardly beside them.

"Thanks, Harry."

He shrugged the words off. "I'll be downstairs, if you need anything. You ok?"

She just nodded. His green eyes searched hers for a moment longer before he ducked out of the room. Draco had downed the contents of the bottle and shoved it onto the bedside table – he dropped down onto his side on the bed and curled in on himself. She could see pain in every rigid part of his body, in the trembling tension in his hands as they clenched over the duvet. She counted the minutes.

Three hours passed them by, and even though he seemed to fall asleep the Pepper Up potion didn't seem to do anything else. She stood over him, arms folded, lips pressed into a tight line. Her careful gaze travelled over his flushed face, the huge dark circles under his eyes. His hair stuck to his temples in dark strands, pinned there by the same sweat that was glistening on his whole body. It had dislodged the gauze which was taped over his chest, and the skin around it was a fierce red, prickled with tiny, thin purpled lines. She hated to wake him up, but she couldn't risk letting the fever get any worse. She was starting to panic. She took a deep breath and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Draco?"

She laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, still regretting the need to wake him. His brow pulled together in a wince. She waited for a couple of moments, hesitating still, and then placed her other hand against his cheek. His skin was hot under her palm, and she turned her hand over to lay the back of her hand against him instead, trying to cool him down.

"Draco, come on," she said again. "Please?"

His eyes flickered open. They roved over the ceiling and she had to lean further forwards before he focussed on her. His clear blue eyes were glassy and dull, and he stared up at her blearily, confusion and pain creasing his forehead into a frown. She wondered if he was even looking at her, or whether he was seeing someone else entirely. She tried to smile encouragingly, brushed some of the sweat-soaked hair out of his face.

"Hey," she said. "How about we get you cleaned up?"

He blinked slowly. A sudden, involuntary shudder rolled over him and he flinched, his body tensing in pain, his eyes squeezing shut. She reached quickly for his hand, slipping her fingers between his in an effort to comfort him, her stomach twisting at her helplessness. His hand closed over hers.

"You ok?" she murmured.

His eyes cracked open again, settled on her face. His breathing was tight and shallow, but she thought she might have finally got through to him. He offered her a short nod.

"Listen," she said, speaking slowly and calmly, "Your fever's getting really bad. I thought a shower might help cool you down a bit. Do you think you can stand?"

He looked back at her, his answer in every line of his face. _No._ She forced herself to smile at him, squeezed his lax fingers gently.

"I'll be right next to you," she pressed. "I'll Apparate you down there. You can lean on me the whole time."

He closed his eyes, and her heart sank. But just when she thought he had fallen asleep again, his jaw clenched tightly and he bent his arms beneath him, beginning to push himself upright. She shifted forwards hastily to help, putting both hands behind his back to help steady him. She held onto his shoulders as he made it up, distinctly aware of how much he had to lean on her. He had lifted one hand to his chest, holding it tightly. She raked her brains one final time, in a desperate attempt to come up with some other way to help him. But it was no good – the bed needed changing, and he needed a way to cool down. And with potions failing them, the shower was their next best bet.

"Just try to breathe," she said. "Lean on me, ok?"

She waited for him to lift his head before continuing, which he eventually did. He shifted to move his legs over the edge of the bed in slow, painful movements, and they stopped again before attempting standing. He sat there, hunched over himself, and she could tell that he was already exhausted. She couldn't help but feel guilty as she took in his shivering, crumpled form, his head hanging down. She hated to ask him to move, knowing how much it was going to hurt him.

"Just try, Draco," she murmured helplessly, wishing she could offer something more than words. "I'm right here."

His shoulders heaved slightly in a shuddery sigh, and then his head lifted. His eyes met hers and she tried to pour everything she had into the connection, tried to offer him as much strength as she could. His lips quirked slightly, and then he nodded.

"Ok," she said, steeling herself. "Let's go."

She slipped her hands beneath his elbows and lifted gently. She felt his whole body tense up beneath her grip as he pushed himself up onto his feet. The trembling increased at once and as soon as he straightened up, any remaining blood flooded out of his face. She scrambled to wrap both arms around his waist and take some of his weight as he swayed dangerously, and a strangled moan escaped him.

"Okay, okay," she said breathlessly. "I'm going to Apparate now, okay?"

He whimpered, shook, his knees beginning to buckle, and she didn't dare risk making him stand any longer. She lurched them backwards through a brief, twisting darkness, bringing them to rest in the middle of the bathroom. His legs gave out at once as soon as they landed, and she only just managed to slow his fall and direct him down onto the closed toilet seat. He let out a muffled cry as he landed, one arm still folded tightly over his chest, and she dropped down in front of him as soon as he was seated, one hand still holding tightly to his shoulder, the other seeking out his face, desperately pursuing eye contact with him again. Her heart was beating hard and fast in fear as he curled in on himself, his breathing tight and shallow, his body rigid with pain.

"Draco? Draco, please look at me? Hey, hey…"

She worked her fingers through his damp hair, still struck by how hot his skin was against her hand. His skin was blazing, his body shaking with tremors which went right to the core of him.

"Draco? Draco…"

A sob welled up in her throat, but before it could break free his eyes cracked open and he met her gaze. She could see the pain there – she hardly ever didn't now – but she could also see a tiny smile twisting at the corner of his lips. She stared at him, wondering if he was delirious.

"Jesus, is there an echo in here?"

His voice was strained and weak, but somehow he was still smirking. She couldn't help but roll her eyes.

"You jerk," she muttered, rising to her feet. "Are you alright?"

He nodded stiffly, leaning heavily against the wall beside the toilet. He didn't look ok. His body curled into the wall, as if about to disintegrate around him, one arm still clutching weakly at his chest. He watched her through slitted eyes as she went about turning on the shower. She kept the temperature low, just warm enough to take off the edge, but cool enough to hopefully help lower his temperature. She pulled the curtain half closed, hung a towel off the radiator, just within reach, and then turned to face him.

"Ready?"

He looked back at her and shook his head.

"I know," he said as she opened her mouth, his voice still tremulous. "I can't fucking stand, Hermione."

Her heart tore for him. She couldn't remember a time when he had ever admitted not being able to do something. He was too proud. But the sickness had forced him to forget that. She didn't know if it was the fever, the disorientation, or just the amount of pain he was in, but the wall that had stood there between them for the past few months was gone.

Which was perhaps why she had the nerve to seize the bottom of her hoodie and pull both it and her t-shirt off over her head.

His eyebrows shot upwards despite himself, and he squinted up at her in completely unveiled shock. She felt a slight thrill, even if her cheeks were starting to grow red. She folded her arms, in an effort to look more in command, and shifted her weight from foot to foot uncertainly.

"So, I'll help you."

He huffed out a brief, painful laugh, leaning his forehead against the tiled wall. His eyes skated quickly over her and back to her face. "You're joking."

"Scared?" she challenged.

He moved as if to get up, but dropped back down again almost at once, letting out a weak gasp. Forgetting her dare, she hurried over and wrapped an arm around his waist, caught the other under his elbow. Together, him leaning heavily on her and swaying every so often, they made it upright. He was fidgeting with something, and she could not figure out what he was doing. It was only when he shifted and his pyjama trousers dropped to the ground around his ankles that she realised, and she fixed her eyes resolutely on his face. His lips were twisted in a smirk.

"Are _you?_ "

Their proximity was so close, and it was so much like being thrown back into the past, that she found herself smiling. She wrestled with her expression, began to move carefully towards the bath. He moaned, reaching out for the tiled wall, and she did her best to help as much as she could.

"Called… your bluff… Granger," he ground out as they reached the bath.

She took his hand, encouraging him to use her arm for leverage, and he sighed. She could feel his body tensing in preparation, the muscles of his back tight. Then, with a tremendous effort, he lifted one leg. She supported him into the tub, held fast to his arms as he finally leaned against the wall. He was breathing hard, his eyes screwed shut, his face turned against the tiles. She was afraid to let go, but by now she was convinced that she could not risk letting go for the whole time he was in the shower.

"Hang on," she muttered.

He didn't respond, and a flash of panic leapt through her. She pulled the curtain shut, steeling herself, and then put her hands to the waistband of her jeans. She only hesitated for a moment before undoing the button and dragging them down, leaving them behind on the floor. Her shoes and socks followed, along with her bra. Then, before she could ask herself what the hell she was doing, she slipped around the shower curtain and climbed into the tub directly behind him.

It seemed that she only just got there in time – he was listing dangerously to one side, his legs trembling fiercely. The roar of the running water, still just out of reach of the two of them, filled her ears. She snatched for him as his head began to drop downwards, her arms wrapping around his waist, a position she was becoming quickly familiar with. He shifted, turned awkwardly to face her in the small space. His eyes widened at the fact that she had actually climbed in with him, his hands hovering uncertainly inches above her skin. She moved forwards, urging him carefully backwards until he stepped into the steady stream of cool water. He flinched, hissing sharply.

"Fuck, _fuck…"_

"Are you ok?" She caught at him, tried to lean forwards to see his wound.

"It's _fucking_ cold!"

She let out a short laugh, but she knew the water would be much colder for him than for her. He was already shivering violently, struggling to hold back groans of pain as the movement jolted his injury. She reached for the temperature gauge and turned it up a little, just as far as she dared, picked up a bottle of shower gel as she straightened again.

"We'd better get going, then."

His eyes lifted to meet hers. They flickered, as if to look down at her, and then quickly snapped shut. Water streamed over his face, plastering his hair to his head.

"Fucking hell, Hermione, what're you trying to do to me?"

She allowed herself a small grin, juggling the shower gel and trying to keep him upright at the same time. She managed to squeeze some out and spread it across his shoulders and back, working it up into a lather. His eyes squeezed shut, he dropped his head to lean against her shoulder. Her hands ran over his skin, his familiar lines and structure, the unfamiliar scars and marks.

"Draco?"

"Mmph."

She shifted. "Don't fall asleep, ok?"

"Mm not," he muttered. "I'm too fucking horny."

"Isn't it too cold to be horny?"

"Yeah, well, it's been a while."

He faltered with a whimper and she hurriedly reached for his arms, pulled them up to rest on her own shoulders.

"Just a little longer," she promised, reaching for the shampoo. "Can you lift your head?"

He did, eyes still closed. She worked the shampoo into his hair as gently and quickly as she could, let the rush of the shower wash it away as quickly as the bubbles formed. She pushed it back out of his face, flat against his head, much like his usual slicked-back style. As she did so his eyes opened and came into contact with her own. He was still trembling, still unsteady, and she knew she should get him out of the tub and back into the bed upstairs. But even as she opened her mouth to suggest moving, he had ducked his head and his lips were against hers.

Something inside her released, even though she hadn't realised she had been tense. She delved into the kiss, felt one of his hands moving impossibly carefully through her damp hair. Her stomach fluttered and she found herself clutching at him, relishing the feel of his flesh beneath her hands and the heat of his lips. She knew her heart had begun to beat a million miles a minute, and that her head was spinning wildly, and all she could think was how much she had missed him, how much she had missed being this close to him. She moved closer, needing to feel his whole body against her, her skin singing with electricity as his hands trailed over her back, further down… She closed her teeth gently over his bottom lip, felt his hand close over her left butt cheek…

His leg abruptly shook and he dropped hard against the tiled wall, gasping as he made impact. She snatched at him desperately, shocked out of her daze, only just managing to keep him upright. He leaned on her, one arm looped around her shoulders, his jaw clenched tightly.

"Draco? Oh god, sorry, come on…"

He made a noise, as if about to speak, but he broke off in a rough moan. His legs were barely holding him up any longer. Terrified of hurting him further, she span awkwardly around and brought him carefully down into the tub. Soon enough he was settled against the bathtub, knees bent in the small space, both arms crossed tightly over his chest. As she scrambled to turn off the water his eyes cracked open and fixed on her. She crouched down, only just able to kneel opposite him, looking anxiously at his chest.

"Let me see - is it bleeding?"

He reached for her, seized her arm, and pulled her sharply forwards. She almost lost her balance, only just managing to avoid tumbling on top of him by grabbing the edge of the bath. She pulled back, shooting him a raised eyebrow, and he groaned and fell back.

"Ah, come _on,_ we were about to fuck…"

She rolled her eyes, fighting down a flicker of disappointment herself. "I don't think you're up to it. Let me see."

She tugged at the arm that was still held against his wound, and he reluctantly let her pull it away. The gaping, ugly gash blazed an angry red against his white chest, the skin around it still discoloured. A small trickle of blood was ebbing out of it, and she pursed her lips worriedly. He covered it again, sighing heavily.

"Ignore it, 'Mione," he muttered, reaching for her once more.

She put the back of her hand against his cheek, searched his eyes. He looked a less glazed than before, but his skin was still too warm. She stood up before he could catch hold of her again, stepping out of the tub. She snagged a towel from the back of the bathroom door and hung it over the side of the tub, within reach, before catching up another one and hurriedly drying herself off. She could feel his gaze on her, but when she looked up he glanced down at his lap, looking distinctly miserable. Still a little damp, she snatched up her jeans from the bathroom floor and pulled them on before dragging on her t-shirt, foregoing the bra and hoodie.

"Hey," she said, allowing him to look up again. "What is it?"

He stared back at her, his blue eyes clouded with frustration and defeat. He scrubbed a hand over his face and through his hair.

"I'm sick of this," he muttered.

She crouched beside the tub, her folded arms resting on its side. She had to reach out and touch his chin to turn his face towards her, and still he didn't look her in the eye. She leaned forwards and touched her lips lightly against his, let her hand ghost up through his wet hair. His forehead moved to lean against hers when she broke away.

"Don't," she murmured. "It'll be ok."

He said nothing. She rose to her feet, forcing herself to keep her gaze from straying downwards. Despite his condition, he still somehow managed to look incredibly sexy lying in the bath, his hair damp, his skin glittering with droplets of water.

"I'll be right back – stay here."

He shivered, pulled the towel towards himself, leaned his head back against the side of the tub. "Funny."

She seized the rest of the clothes strewn around on the floor and Apparated upstairs. Tossing them in the far corner, she retrieved her wand from the folds of her hoodie and jabbed it at the bed. The sheets flew off it, the duvet twisting and spiralling in the air, and the fresh ones piled on the floor nearby shot onto it in their place. The old sheets were sent to join the clothes on the floor. She opened the drawers one at a time until she found something he could wear – black silk pyjama trousers. She smirked at the sight of them – only Draco Malfoy could be rendered homeless and yet still own something so lavish.

When she re-appeared in the bathroom, Draco hadn't moved. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes screwed shut. She wondered if he had a headache. She was pretty sure he always had a headache now. He dropped his hand and squinted up at her as she stepped up to the tub, the towel thrown carelessly in his lap. She held out her hand.

"Ready?"

He shook his head, and took her hand.

 **Might've felt a bit slow this update. All I can say is expect action in the next couple of chapters.**

 **Thanks for reading, reviews are always welcome.**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

 **Again, many thanks to everyone who reviewed. I love to hear what you guys think of this and where you think it's going. Hope you enjoy it!**

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 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

* * *

She was up early the next morning, woken by the violent shivers that had taken hold of him. She wasn't sure when, but at some point during the night she had curled up on the edge of the bed beside him. She could try to blame it on tiredness, but she knew it was the brief moment they had shared in the shower that had made her want to get close to him again. She'd forgotten how good it felt to have his body against hers. And even now, despite the fact that she had slept on the very edge of the bed and on top of the blankets, he had rolled towards her and one of his arms was slung around her, his fingers woven into her hair. He was so close that she could almost imagine that they were in her Prefect room at Hogwarts.

But he wasn't peaceful now. His eyes were clenched shut and moving rapidly beneath their lids, and sweat had soaked through his fringe and the bandages on his chest. Which, she saw with a jolt, had several dull red splotches showing through. His breathing came in uneven, sharp gasps, and when she touched his neck his pulse was racing under her fingertips. The white scars on his neck and shoulder stood out starkly against his ashen skin.

"Draco?"

He didn't register her so she inched closer, closing the little space left between them. She leaned her forehead against his, her heart sinking at the blazing heat still coming off him. Apparently the cold shower hadn't done much to keep the temperature down. She glanced over her shoulder, and found the water jug on the bedside table empty. She sighed and sat up, gently removing his arm from her shoulders. He moaned when she rose to her feet, but didn't wake. She took a last moment to check the bandages – they would need changing as soon as possible. She didn't like the look of the blood coming through them at all. She fastened her teeth over her lip and headed downstairs, trying to push the dark thoughts whispering in her head to the back of her mind.

There had to be a way. There had to be _something._

She refilled the jug in the kitchen in a daze, the roar of the water filling her ears, the jug steadily growing heavier in her hands. Her brain rifled through everything she had found in the last few days of research, turned the information over, and cast it aside. She had nothing that would save him. But she couldn't bear to just give up and wait – there had to be something else. The Ministry – Hestia had proved unhelpful so far, but surely there must be someone at the Ministry who would be willing to help? As she climbed the stairs again, she mentally ran through the people she knew by name and their respective departments. Most were Aurors, with no real history of magical maladies. She just needed to find someone who could put her in touch with a person in the right department…

She had reached the secondary landing, where she caught sight of the door to the room she usually shared with Ginny and Luna. She could hear low voices and stopped, wondering if the other girls were up, but realised that the voices were in fact coming from the other shared room. It was the room that Harry and Ron usually shared, and the door was currently ajar. As she drew nearer, she realised that the voices were more heated than she had first realised. She paused before passing the door, not wishing to involve herself in an argument. But it seemed they hadn't heard her yet. She could hear Ron whispering loudly.

"… the second time you've skipped training with the Aurors – it's because of him, isn't it? You're staying behind to help her."

"She needs someone to stay."

"How are you ok with this? How are you being so bloody _friendly_ with him?"

"It's complicated," Harry replied. He sounded frustrated, but was attempting to control it – his voice was still quiet. "We have to try to understand."

"Understand _what?_ Only thing I need to understand is how he's got you all on side so easily."

"It's not about sides."

"Just tell me, Harry, why bother? He's dead anyway."

She felt as if the breath had been sucked out of her. Her throat suddenly became tight and her eyes hot. She blinked furiously and stepped past the door without caring if they saw anymore, heading for the stairs to the attic. She couldn't bear to listen to Ron now. But Harry spoke again, and his words stopped her before she could start on the stairs.

"Because I don't want to lose Hermione."

Her stomach turned over. Harry's voice was strange – a light kind of sadness, or nostalgia, or something she couldn't quite pin point. She heard him sigh.

"I don't want to make her choose between him or us, Ron, because it's not fair. We're supposed to trust each other."

"But she didn't tell us. She didn't trust us."

"How would you have reacted?"

Ron huffed, and Harry snorted.

"Exactly. Look, she sees something in him. So I have to trust her that there's more to him than it seems. Plus, we're going back to Hogwarts next year, and I'm not prepared at all for the final exams. I'm going to need Hermione around."

He was making an attempt at humour, and Ron even made a disgruntled sound which could almost have been a reluctant laugh. She clutched the jug, almost tempted to go back – they hadn't had the chance to talk, just the three of them together, and she could sense Ron wavering. But her eyes remained on the stairs, and she hesitated only for a moment before continuing upwards. Ron's attitude would have to wait.

When she got back to the attic room, Draco had stretched one arm across the side of the bed she had been on as if feeling around for her, his body twisted slightly towards the gap. She deposited the jug and sat down on the edge of the bed, reached out to take hold of his hand. His skin was clammy and his fingers closed tightly around hers as soon as she made contact, his forehead wrinkling as if someone had asked him a particularly difficult question. Maybe it was her imagination, but he didn't feel quite as warm as before.

"Draco? Are you awake?"

He mumbled something and she leaned closer to hear – she couldn't make out anything from the slurred moans and noises. He wasn't waking up. Her stomach jerked but she tried to tell herself not to panic. As much as she hated it, it was no longer that uncommon for her to have difficulty waking him up. She had to be proactive.

Carefully, she slipped her hand out of his grip and crossed the room to the armchair, which was covered in the notes she had been making over the last few days. She sifted through them until she found a fresh piece of parchment, dusted it off, and picked up her pen. She was fast running out of options – she needed help. Harry had said he had written to McGonagall – it only made sense that she now write to the Ministry and demand that they do something to help.

She spent the morning there on the armchair, legs crossed, leaning on one of the few remaining books she had still been looking at. She had to cross her words out and start again several times before she hit the right tone – she didn't want to be too aggressive, but she refused to ask politely either. She hated that they had so far done nothing to help them other than send Slughorn, who had proved to be utterly useless. She glanced up every now and then at Draco. He seemed to be sleeping, albeit fitfully. His face was constantly tense with one distress or another, and she couldn't tell if it was because he was in pain or fighting with some imagined enemy. His fists jerked every now and again as if he were fending someone off, and no matter what she said he didn't seem to hear her. She had preferred it when he was sleepy and half-conscious – at least then she had been able to comfort him. Now he was inconsolable, carried on peaks and troughs of panic, and she was powerless to help. If it became particularly bad, she would get up and go and sit beside him, but she doubted he really knew she was there.

A knock at the door drew her from her focus, and she stood up quickly, anxious from the long morning of slow progress. She had a letter together, although she wasn't completely happy with it, and the only change with Draco was that he was now curled up on his side. He flinched at the knock and she found herself moving between him and the door as if to defend him, tried to calm her frayed nerves. Harry's face appeared and she softened, particularly at the timid uncertainty behind his glasses.

"Hermione?"

"Hi," she said, relaxing a little. "Sorry, I… Everything ok?"

"Hestia's here."

Hermione broke off. "Hestia?"

"To talk to Draco."

Hermione felt her anxiety turn to anger in the way that boiling water hits snow. Her temper was constantly flickering near the brink these days, but she felt that this particular news was an exception. She folded her arms tightly, glaring back at him with hard eyes.

"No, no more questions – not today – he can't – "

And then, as Harry inched the door open wider, she caught sight of Hestia just behind him. Her anger flared and she strode forwards to meet them at the door, opening it wide. She kept the letter she had been reading over in one hand, crumpling it slightly as her fingers clenched.

"Keep an eye on him," she snapped at Harry. "Just – If anything happens, call me straightaway."

"Got it," Harry said hurriedly, ducking into the room.

Hestia made as if to follow, but Hermione blocked her way and drove her back out into the corridor, shutting the door behind her. For once, she didn't feel nervous about confronting the Auror. Hestia's eyes narrowed, but any exasperation she felt didn't show on her face. Her voice remained, as ever, professional.

"Hermione, I need to speak to Malfoy. I'm afraid I have some news."

"He's in no state for another one of your _chats,"_ Hermione hissed back, keeping her voice low. "He's barely conscious – he's told you everything he knows-"

"No, Hermione, this is a different matter," Hestia replied, cutting smoothly across her in a tone which firmly denied arguments.

She drew a folded piece of paper from her robes, stained with watermarks and wrinkled. Hermione blinked at it, and could just make out the word 'Draco' scrawled on it in untidy writing. She felt she recognised the handwriting, and almost at once had a sinking feeling in her stomach. Hestia held it up, allowing her to see it before continuing.

"Lucius Malfoy was found in a river in Romania last night," she said.

"Was… found…?"

"Dead," Hestia clarified clinically. "Suspected suicide. He left a note."

Hermione stared at her, aghast. From the other side of the door her ears caught a ragged moan, and her heart tore. How much more could he take? It had to be some kind of sick joke. Her eyes fell to the note once more. She imagined returning to the room, waking him up, handing it over to him… He had said he didn't want to contact his father, but she doubted he had wanted or expected this.

"He can't know."

"Hermione, I have to inform him-"

"He _can't_ ," she ground out. "Didn't you see him? He needs to put all his energy into fighting this thing. If he hears this now it's just going to… to cause more pain."

"I'm obligated to explain the event to him."

"Not now," she insisted. "Please. No."

Hestia's face seemed to grow imperceptibly sharper and she tucked the letter into her robes once more.

"I doubt Mr. Malfoy will appreciate this information being withheld-"

"But you must agree with me, or you would be in there by now," Hermione retorted, glancing warily over her shoulder. The door was still closed. "You can tell him – just wait until he's recovered."

She lifted her own letter and held it out, her chin lifted, ready to fight her corner. Hestia's eyebrow quirked curiously and she took it, unfolded it, and scanned the single page of careful handwriting with critical eyes.

"That's for the Ministry," Hermione said coldly. "It's a formal complaint – and it demands that someone does _something_ to help him. It's-"

"I don't believe this is necessary."

Hermione broke off, and watched in shocked disbelief as Hestia refolded the paper into half twice and put it away in her pocket. Her hand flinched slightly, as if to snatch it back, even as she struggled to speak.

"But-"

"You have helpfully brought me to my second piece of news," Hestia said. "I hope you will receive this part better."

"Hestia – you can't just–"

"I believe I have found an expert in the field of Malfoy's curse."

Hermione, who had still been spluttering desperately, fell silent once more, her eyes growing wide and round. She almost asked Hestia to repeat herself – there had been one too many sharp shocks that morning already for her to believe her ears.

"You mean…"

"It doesn't mean there's a cure," Hestia warned her. "I contacted an old friend of mine a while ago. She works at St. Mungo's, and she has conducted rather extensive research on ancient curses of this kind. She has written back."

"Why didn't you mention her before?"

"Mr. Malfoy's former occupation would have discouraged staff at St. Mungo's from offering medical advice. However, I believe in light of recent information, she will now be able to lend assistance without repercussions."

"Repercussions?"

"We've discussed this, Miss. Granger. St. Mungo's does not show sympathy for former Death Eaters. The general thinking is that Azkaban is able to provide treatment when necessary."

"Which is completely inhumane."

Hestia's shoulders moved in a small shrug, although her expression did not change. Hermione pushed her hair back, still struggling to understand what Hestia was saying.

"You think she can help?"

"I think she knows more about this thing than anyone," Hestia replied. "I have an appointment with her at 2pm today, should you and Malfoy wish to join me."

Hermione couldn't feel the ground under her feet. Her mind was racing. She wanted to let herself be hopeful, wanted to get excited about the news, but she had to try to keep her head. It didn't mean anything for certain – but it was still the best thing she had heard since this whole thing began. There was only one problem. She looked back at the door, her eyes staring through the old wood at the scene she had been looking at all night.

"I don't know if he can," she said slowly. "He's not… He came down to the living room with me yesterday and his fever spiked straightaway. He's been having hallucinations."

"It may be possible that my contact has no available treatment, even if she does have more information," Hestia said. "It may be better if, seeing as you have taken on the role of caretaker, you go and report back to him. Whatever you decide, I will be downstairs in the hall at 1.45pm."

She turned away and made for the stairs. Hermione caught at her sleeve before she could go, her heart jumping in her chest. Hestia paused, waiting, her only reaction to the obstruction a slight flicker of irritation in her stern eyes.

"Hestia – thanks. Thank you," Hermione stuttered.

Hestia's gaze softened a little, and she patted Hermione's hand before firmly untangling it from her sleeve.

"I'll see you downstairs at 1.45."

She continued down the stairs, her robes billowing behind her, and Hermione slowly pushed the door to Draco's room open. As soon as she saw him, still shuddering violently and twisting in the blankets, the watermarked letter in Hestia's hand leapt into her mind. For a moment she wavered in her resolution not to tell him, but the next moment he started muttering from between clenched teeth, and she crossed to the bed.

"Everything ok?"

She jumped – she'd almost forgotten Harry was even there. He was hesitating in the corner of the room, arms folded, glancing uncertainly over at them.

"Yeah – yeah," she said distractedly. "Thanks, Harry."

"'Mione…"

Draco was trying to sit up, squinting at her as if they were underwater. She crouched down, grabbed a bottle of nightshade from the bedside table, pressed it into his hand. He took it but it was a while before he seemed to understand that she wanted him to drink it.

"Not doing great, huh?" Harry said under his breath, moving closer. "Is he-"

"I can fucking hear you, Potter," Draco snapped, his words lacking their usual sting.

"Sorry," Harry said, shooting a look at Hermione.

"Draco, listen," Hermione said, ignoring the look. "Hestia might have found someone who can help – someone who knows about the curse."

"What – she – really?"

It was Harry who spoke, but Draco's gaze snapped up to Hermione's, his bloodless face turning even whiter. She held his stare, her hands still caught around his, her mouth a firm line.

"She's a mediwitch, she's researched it in depth – she'll have information." Draco shook his head jerkily, and she felt her stomach plunge. "She's what we need, if anyone knows what to do-"

"Won't be able to help," Draco muttered haltingly. He drank more of the nightshade before pushing it shakily back onto the bedside table. "Gone too far."

She didn't know if she felt like screaming or crying. She gripped his arm tighter, forcing him to look at her again.

"It's worth a try. Draco, it's the _only_ lead we have."

"She'll only tell us what we already know."

"Draco…"

"Is she coming here?"

"We're going to meet her. At 1.45pm."

Draco's lips twisted into a humourless sneer. She reached out to push her hand through his hair, felt him lean against her slightly. His blue-grey eyes were flickering with uncertainty, and she knew that he must feel as scared as she did. If it turned out to be nothing… He shook his head again, and any hope she had built up was thrashed.

"I can't even walk, Hermione."

"I'm not leaving you here on your own," she retorted. "Not like this."

"I can stay," Harry said. "I'm not working with the Aurors today. Thought I'd stay here anyway."

Hermione looked up at him, hardly able to contain her relief. Harry nodded openly, and she looked quickly at Draco, who had closed his eyes again. He flinched violently as a spasm rolled through him, suppressed a moan.

"So I'll go to meet her with Hestia, and I'll let you know what she says. Harry can keep an eye on you in the meantime."

Draco shook his head again. Hermione glanced at Harry, who took the hint and quickly retreated. She waited until the door closed behind him before inching closer to Draco. His eyes were slightly glazed when he looked up at her again.

"Draco, I'm not going to let this pass us by. I'm not missing this chance."

"Let Hestia go."

"Hestia doesn't know how you are. If you're not going, I need to explain your condition."

He wove his fingers into hers, his grip tremulous. "Don't go."

"Why not?"

He held onto her hand as if it were a lifeline. "I just… In case."

"You'll have Harry."

"That's not…" he winced. "Just… stay here."

" _No –_ you think this doesn't matter? If there's even the slightest chance that she could help-"

She broke off. He was staring at the blanket, his face lined with tense unhappiness. And something else – and the way he was gripping her hand and the tremulous quality in his eyes suddenly made sense. He was scared that something would happen while she was gone. Something that would mean he wouldn't be there when she got back. A flash of bitter determination hit her and she gripped his hand back.

"I'll be back within an hour. It'll be fine. I promise."

He didn't reply, so she said it again, close enough to feel his heart beating hard and fast beneath her lips. She found his pebble on the bedside table and folded it into his hand, closed both their fingers around it tightly. But he didn't seem comforted, and when 1.45pm and she kissed him lightly on the cheek, she knew the look in his blue-grey eyes was going to follow her all the way to St. Mungo's.

 **~O~**

His eyes opened suddenly, jerking him out of the daze he had slipped into. He wasn't sure when he had drifted off; he was lying on his back, one leg hanging off the bed, his arm crooked over his face to block out the sun. He knew he was still shaking, although having downed half a bottle of nightshade over the course of the morning it had subsided a decent amount. The world was still an unsettling haze moving in and out of focus, and his head and chest were still muted agony, but he could see enough to figure out that he wasn't dreaming. He didn't have long to wait before the cause of his sudden wake-up call became apparent – there was another hesitant knock on the door, accompanied by a cough.

"Malfoy?"

The voice was muffled through the wood, but he recognised it at once and instantly felt the urge to remain silent. But the knock came again, and he had a suspicion that Saint Potter was not about to go away in a hurry. He acquiesced to a grunt, and the door clicked open. Potter's scruffy black hair appeared, and his glasses flared in the light of the setting sun as he appeared.

"Just thought I'd come up," he said, in a strange voice. "How's it going?"

Draco squinted up at him, wondering if he was joking. But the other boy's face was filled with earnest concern, and he sighed heavily.

"Great," he replied flatly. "Having the time of my life."

"You took the IV out?"

Potter's eyes had flickered away to seek out the metal stand and plastic bag. Draco winced, remembering, and glanced down at his arm. The plastic port set into the back of his hand stuck out stubbornly, and he suppressed the urge to rip the horrible thing out.

"It fucking itches, ok?"

Potter raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, don't tell me. Hermione's the one who's going to want explanations."

It seemed they were able to agree on something, after all. He flexed his hand, shuddering at the way the port pulled at his skin. The house seemed quiet. There were no thundering footsteps on the stairs, no voices from below. Potter cleared his throat awkwardly.

"The others are out," he said, as if feeling the same silence. "And I was gonna put the TV on. Hermione said you get bored…"

He trailed off, unable to complete the thought. He didn't have to. Draco tried and failed to hold back a snigger, the jerking movement punished by a rush of pain through his chest. He closed his eyes until it subsided, doing his best to breathe through it.

"Fucking hell, Potter, are you serious?"

"Apparently."

"Look," he stopped as a sharp pain made itself known in the front of his skull, waited for it to recede. By the time he was happy to speak again he didn't have enough energy to be as sarcastic as he had planned. "You don't need to babysit me, really. Just 'cause you're scared of Hermione–"

"I'm not _scared_ of…" Potter sighed loudly from across the room, but somehow did not rise to the bait as usual. "I'm just saying, it might be better than just sitting up here on your own."

"No, no, let's sit down there instead and make awkward small talk. That would be much better."

"Honestly Malfoy, you're hilarious, but are you coming down or not? Because I'm putting a movie on in five minutes."

He smirked again, but he couldn't deny that he wanted out of the room. He felt like all he did was lose time. And if he fell asleep again, he had no doubt he would be hit with more disorientating nightmares. He'd had enough of those. When he had joined them to watch something before, the hubbub of muffled, tinny, meaningless chatter of characters and action in the background made it easier to feel safe. Silence was harder to relax in – it only made Hermione's absence more obvious. He hated lying there alone, trembling steadily, waiting for something to happen to him.

And, strangest of all, the idea of hanging out with Potter did not fill him with contempt.

He opened his eyes and, sucking in as deep a breath as he could, lifted himself upright. He had to move slowly, and every twist his body made sent jarring pain through him. His arms shook but he made it, head throbbing dully, struggling to keep his breathing even. He glanced up, squinting back at Potter's surprised gaze.

"It won't be something shit, will it?"

Potter's lips curved into a smile. Utterly surreal to see it being directed at him. The other boy shook his head.

"I'm sure you'll have something to say, no matter what I choose."

Draco huffed a short laugh. He was still trying to gather his strength to stand up, and wished suddenly that Hermione was there. He didn't feel all that comfortable asking Potter to get as close as she did, and even sitting upright was proving difficult. He realised that he hadn't considered how he would actually get downstairs, and came to the fast conclusion that he wouldn't make it.

"Do you want to Side-Along?"

He looked up, quirking an eyebrow in surprise. Potter was already moving towards him, held out a hand.

"Unless you'd prefer to walk?"

Draco shook his head dazedly. Perhaps he was still asleep and dreaming – he and Potter had never been so amicable. But he didn't have much choice, so he nodded. Summoning everything he had, he pushed off from the bed to rise to his feet. Potter's hand went under his elbow at once before he could sway, and they instantly spiralled through pitch black. They reappeared in the living room with a landing which was a little too sudden for Draco's liking, sending him staggering. Luckily the sofa was just beside him, and he was able to drop onto it heavily. The motion jarred him and he suppressed a whimper at the pain in his chest.

"Sorry – you ok?"

He cracked an eye open. Potter was hovering over him anxiously, uncertain.

"Jesus – no need to be careful, Potter, it's only a fatal curse."

"Better job than you could do, wasn't it?"

"Oh yes, you win. Congratulations."

Potter snorted – something between amusement and exasperation – and headed out of the room. Draco listened to his footsteps thudding down the hall, heard the door to the kitchen open with a squeak. Gingerly, he scooted along the sofa. He lifted first one leg and then the other up onto it and leaned back until his head touched the armrest. It wasn't quite as comfortable as Hermione's lap, but he doubted he could sit up for the whole film. He settled himself as best he could, cocooned in the smell of old, threadbare furniture coverings. The television across the room was a stark burst of technology in the middle of rather antiquated surroundings, and it was strange to see. He was still getting used to the whole concept of it – muggles sitting down to watch the same people perform the same story lines and actions time after time. What was the point? Was it still supposed to be funny the third time through? Why watch a film about the Empire State Building rather than just simply going there? But he couldn't be bothered to question it, so he let it go.

Footsteps announced Potter's return, and the other boy re-appeared with two cups of pumpkin juice and a bowl of something balanced on his arm. He deposited one of the glasses beside Draco, who eyed it witch a mixture of surprise and disdain – he really didn't like pumpkin juice – and then retreated to the other sofa, where he flopped down. He retrieved a rectangular device from the depths of the sofa cushions and flicked on the television, which came to life with a surge of sound and colour. A large cat was prancing across the screen, explaining the benefits of eating a certain type of catfood. Draco watched in bemused alarm until Potter began to flick through a variety of different pictures.

"What do you want to watch?"

"Why are you doing this?"

Potter glanced at him briefly. "This is how you look at what's on and decide what to watch."

"No, I mean…" Draco cast his eyes skywards in frustration. "Never mind.

Potter paused, his thumb hovering over the device. "Oh look, _The Magnificent Seven_ is on."

Draco peered at it. A selection of men in ridiculous cowboy hats glared at the camera, and then at each other intermittently. He shrugged. Potter, taking this as an agreement, settled back on the sofa and threw the device away. They watched the red and orange of the desert rush past on screen to the high, wheeling sound of Western music.

"Because maybe we should try for a fresh start." Potter said suddenly, eyes glued to the screen. "That's why."

Draco blinked, trying to decipher quite what Potter meant. But the movie was getting going, and to his surprise he found that he was rather interested. Obviously the whole thing was ridiculous, but somehow also rather compelling. But despite his interest, it wasn't long before his eyes grew heavy.

He faded in and out for the rest of the movie. The sofa was comfortable and he was able to sink into it, enjoying the distant, muted babble of the television. Swells and plateaus of music, excited, incredulous chatter. His arms felt so heavy, as if weighted down by rocks. He felt oddly as if he were sinking further and further into the cushions, as if they were about to give way and send him floating away into nothingness. He was aware of Potter commenting on something or another every so often, but could never quite keep up enough to hear what he was saying. Either way, he was content enough to just listen to the sounds of the film and enjoy dozing.

 _"You failed me, Draco. And you must be punished."_

The voice cut through his pleasant daze like a knife through butter. He felt his body flinch automatically, but tried to keep his mind in check. Hermione had told him that his hallucinations were becoming more frequent. That was all they were – just tricks of the mind. None of it was real. He tried to concentrate on the sound of the Western music and the clatter of hooves. Some kind of gunfight was going on in the film, it seemed. Somewhere nearby Potter laughed.

Not Potter. The voice was too high-pitched, too eerily malicious. He clenched in fear, felt the dull pain in his chest spike. And then, unmistakably real, the voice came again. He could almost feel rancid breath against his ear.

 _"Perhaps a deal, then boy – if you survive, you may be forgiven. If not, Nagini may eat the body."_

Fangs filled his vision and any trace of rationality left him in a whirlwind of pure terror. He tried to move and discovered with further dread that he couldn't. All he could know for sure was that there was a skeletal figure across the room in black robes, a figure looking at him with burning red eyes, forked tongue sliding from beneath his lips.

 **~O~**

She hated being away. Sitting in the clinical white spotless waiting room in the reception of St Mungo's felt like some kind of betrayal - especially after their refusal to treat him. She fiddled anxiously with her nails, her worry even more amplified by Hestia's calm composure beside her. At another time she might have been interested in the people filtering in and out around them - people with the strangest conditions - there was one man who entered with a chair embedded cleanly in his back, and was led into a back room by a smiling nurse. But she couldn't focus on any one person for longer than a couple of seconds before her mind was jumping back to Grimmauld Place, like a scratched record. She turned her pebble over and over in her hand, ready to snatch for it the moment it grew warm. She imagined his held loosely in his upturned palm and felt a slight murmur of comfort.

"Hestia! How are you?"

She almost jumped out of her skin as the warm voice broke through her daydreams. Hestia was rising to hug a mediwitch who had approached them - a tall, willowy woman with a thick halo of dark hair. They broke apart and the witch held out a hand to Hermione, who scrambled to her feet.

"Hermione Granger?"

"Dr. Sedden," she replied, forcing her mouth into a smile. "Thank you for considering - I mean seeing us - at short notice - "

"Please, it's Imani," the witch replied, waving her words away and shaking her hand warmly. "It's my pleasure. I know the circumstances are not happy, but I've been studying this kind of curse for years. I'm happy to help."

She turned, indicating to them to follow, and led them over to a set of gleaming white stairs. As they climbed them they seemed to be covering several at a time, despite keeping a slow pace - doors flashed past on either side until Imani held out a hand to point them towards an office and their speed slowed.

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to see your friend earlier," she said, standing back and holding the door for them. "After all the conflict I'm afraid things were a little tense - a lot of hospitals refused to take patients who were Death Eaters. Lots of personal loss, you know? I didn't actually hear about your friend's case until Hestia called."

The office was a medley of smooth mahogany and black leather chairs, books lining the walls on either side and the wall behind the desk opening into a large window. Sun streamed in, creating a cosy, soft feel. Hermione's eyes strayed to the strange collection of contraptions on the desk - something which looked like a sun dial, lighting up at various points, a circular dish with silvery matter in it, much like a pensive.

"Hestia said you studied this particular curse in depth?" Hermione asked as she was sheparded into a chair.

She knew she was sidestepping Imani's excuses for St. Mungo's lack of aid so far, but she didn't have the time or patience to smile pleasantly and agree. Imani seemed to accept her decision to skip the small-talk and headed around the desk to sit behind it. She waved her wand, summoning a steadily steaming teapot from a cabinet across the room, along with a set of teacups. Hestia reached for them hopefully, but Hermione pointedly ignored them.

"Ah, as much as I can," Imani replied eventually, pouring out a cup for herself. "I studied it for several years, but as I'm sure you know it's very difficult to find any information on. It's hundreds of years old. Milk?"

"No, thanks," Hermione said, frowning at the teacup pushed towards her. She didn't want it – she only wanted answers. "I've been trying to find out as much as I can, but there are so many conflicting descriptions and cures from so many sources…"

"Most of them will be false," Imani confirmed, leaning back in her chair, her teacup held delicately between her forefingers. "In fact, practically all of the cures listed for this curse are just hearsay, no scientific evidence at all. But there are a few truths we've managed to wrangle out over the years."

"Such as?"

Imani hesitated, sharing a brief look with Hestia. She nudged the teacup forwards a little.

"Do have some tea – "

"I'm fine. Thanks." Hermione caught her lip between her teeth for a moment, trying not to be too impatient. "Such as?"

Imani slowly put her teacup down. She seemed to be revving up for bad news, and Hermione steeled herself for the worst. She waited, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, her eyes fixed on Imani as the Mediwitch carefully chose her words.

"Magic doesn't work on this curse," she said at last, her tone gentle and slow, as if explaining to a small child that their pet rabbit was dead. "And we don't have a cure for it. No one does."

Hermione just looked at her. She had the terrible feeling that if she thought about what Imani had said for too long, her heart would plunge into her gut and never come back. She wished she had brought a notebook and pen. At least then she would have something to do with her hands. Imani paused for a moment longer before continuing.

"It's because it's so rare. It was banned over three hundred years ago, and there have only been six cases since - four of which occurred during this last conflict."

"What happened with them?"

"Three were Muggles - the curse works much faster on them. We couldn't get to two of them in time. The third we got to, but too late to help. The last was a witch – I believe of non-magical lineage - and for a while it seemed like she might have a chance but..."

"But?"

Imani's lips pressed together for a moment and she reached for her teacup once more, idly swirling the contents.

"But the Death Eaters found us and killed her on the spot." She sighed, finally raising her eyes to return Hermione's determined stare. "I don't want to give you false hope, Miss Granger. In all of history only one other wizard has survived this curse, and that was an exceptional case involving complex meditative techniques we still don't understand today."

"I know, I know – but you said you were getting somewhere with the most recent case," Hermione pressed, inching forwards on her seat. Her blood was pumping hard in her neck; but she could not give up, not when she had something in reach. "Was it because you were using Muggle remedies?"

Imani's eyebrows quirked and she looked quickly at Hestia, who was currently helping herself to a shortbread biscuit from a nearby plate. "How did you know?"

"We've tried it – a little. He couldn't eat, he kept getting sick, but when I was little my mother went into hospital for a little while, and I remembered the IV she had. So we got one and it worked."

A smile tweaked at Imani's mouth. "Where did you get one?"

Hermione felt her cheeks flushing and returned her gaze to her hands quickly. Imani let out a short laugh, shaking her head.

"No, no, I'm sorry, I'm not accusing you. I'm impressed that you thought of it – you're right. We were using similar methods with our last patient; an IV and an oxygen mask."

Hermione almost smacked herself on the forehead for not thinking of it earlier. Of course, an oxygen mask would have been the first thing to get. Imani leaned forwards, placing her elbows on the table, and Hermione found herself doing the same.

"Ancient Muggle remedies didn't work, just like magic didn't work. But Muggle medicine has advanced a great deal since this magic was conceived. Not enough to overpower it, but enough to support the body."

"But if it can't ultimately overpower it, what's the point?" Hermione swallowed hard. "Does it only… only prolong…"

Imani raised one shoulder in an awkward shrug.

"In a way, yes. But we did come up with a theory – the general consensus is that if the body does legitimately experience death, the curse lifts. Where magic would be ineffectual, muggle techniques have the ability to crudely reinstate life after a small window of inactivity."

"So…" Hermione paused, turning the information over in her head. She didn't much like the sound of it. "So… All we can do is wait until… until he dies, and then resuscitate him with the Muggle technology?"

"Well…" Imani sighed, glancing at Hestia. "I know it doesn't sound like an attractive option, but unfortunately that's the only thing we've managed to come up with. Without magic, our options become rather few."

Hermione let herself sit back in her chair, folding her arms slowly across her chest. She knew she should be happy that she had finally found something – a chance, no matter how small – but she could hear a small voice in the back of her head telling her that it wouldn't work. The plan left too much out of her control. She would essentially be waiting, watching him slip away, and then helplessly trying to bring him back with nothing but an oxygen mask and guesswork CPR. Imani spoke again, her voice very soft, placating.

"Miss Granger… Like I said, I don't want to give you false hope. Even if the Muggle approach has worked so far, even if it was a successful treatment, it could still be too late to be effective." She hesitated. "If I was going to talk straight with you, I'd say there's a very small likelihood of him surviving."

Her mouth was dry as a stone. She licked her lips. "I know."

The air suddenly felt very heavy. She wished there was a window open. She looked at Hestia, who had paused in her mission of demolishing the plate of biscuits, and was listening intently, looking from her to Imani and back. Silence roared at her. The Mediwitch cleared her throat politely.

"What do you want to do?"

She took a beat before answering, regaining her composure. "I want to try."

Imani nodded immediately, her face brightening somewhat. Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that she had just signed Draco up to some kind of unauthorised experimental testing, but she was desperate. Imani was rummaging through one of the drawers of her desk, and produced a large notebook which she opened. From where Hermione was sitting, the pages looked completely blank – however, Imani poured over them with interest.

"Excellent. It would help if we could gauge how far along your friend is in terms of the curse. In my experience, there are five distinct stages to this – would you like me to read them aloud?"

Hermione nodded, her hands twisting together on her lap, anxiety gnawing at her. She watched Imani turn the pages, reading words she couldn't see.

"The time between each stage accelerates as the curse progresses – the final few can happen in rather quick succession. The first stage is similar to a bad flu and pain around the site the curse has hit. The second stage is when the attacks begin to occur – other symptoms include general fatigue and changes in the size and colour of the wound. Minor hallucinations may begin at this stage, but don't usually start to become noticeable until the third stage, when a high fever kicks in. The attacks become more frequent here, and hallucinations become more vivid."

"That sounds about right," Hermione said, furious at how small her voice sounded. "He's… been seeing things a lot recently. And he has a fever."

Imani frowned worriedly. "I see. That's a little further along than I was hoping."

"Why? What are the final two?"

"The final two don't take all that long to complete. At the fourth stage, body temperature drops dangerously low, often resulting in confusion, cold sweats and abnormal or violent behaviour."

"And the fifth stage?"

"A kind of light coma, followed by death."

The word reverberated inside her like a bell. She found herself physically shuddering and clenched her fists, trying to pull herself together. She felt as if she had just relived the past couple of weeks as Imani described the symptoms, felt like she was seeing it all again with new eyes. Had his fever started going down that morning? She had thought he seemed cooler, although she couldn't be sure… Imani was speaking and she forced herself to listen through her pounding heart.

"Considering how far along your friend is, I'd like to see him as soon as possible. Would I be able to see him at his current residence? It'll be easier than moving him here."

She nodded. "Yes, that's… fine."

Imani rose from her desk, and Hermione automatically got to her feet too. She took the hand that Imani held out to shake again, and had the bizarre sensation that she was at a job interview.

"Alright," Imani said seriously, holding her hand. "Give me two hours - I'll get cover for my other patients and pick up some equipment. What's the address?"

Hestia told her, finally returning to the conversation. Hermione let her hand drop, feeling for all the world as if she had just stepped into space. Imani walked them to the lobby, and Hermione could even dare to feel hopeful as she and Hestia said their goodbyes and headed off towards the street. Hestia's shoulders were straight and tall with pride, and she even shot Hermione a grin as they left.

"I told you Imani wouldn't let us down," she said, winking. "She's an old friend – we go way back."

"She seems great." Hermione hesitated, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. But she never was good at keeping silent. "But just because she's offered to help, it doesn't mean we'll be able to save him."

Hestia seemed to deflate slightly. "Well, if Imani can't… I mean, she knows so much about this thing…"

"It's not that simple." Hermione pushed her hair back from her face, unable to stop a sigh of frustration escaping her. "She's the only chance we have, either way."

She wanted so much to believe that Imani would stride in and fix it all, but she wasn't foolish enough to kid herself. Imani herself had expressed her doubts, and Hermione was all too aware of how quickly things could deteriorate. No one, after all, had ever survived before. Even if the last case had been recent, and even if it had been going well, they had no guarantee. She took a moment at the doors of St. Mungo's to pull herself together, pretending to be straightening her coat and looking in her pockets. When she arrived back at the house, she was going to have to be strong. She would have to give him the news. And she had to make him believe what she did not. She glanced at her watch – the others should be arriving back at the house too. She didn't want to see them – she didn't want to explain everything and put on a smile.

"Hermione?"

Hestia was waiting for her, one hand on the doors of St. Mungo's. Hermione forced a smile onto her face and, with a final deep breath, Dis-apparated. Grimauld Place appeared before her in a rush of wind and lights, and she heard the soft, distinctive _crack_ of Hestia arriving beside her. No sooner hand they arrived than a patronous shot out of the air and darted around them both, Ginny's voice echoing from its ghostly light.

" _Hermione, you have to come back right now – something's wrong…_

Her stomach lurched with terror. She could almost feel the blood draining from her face, the rest of Ginny's message lost to her. Even as Hestia called her name and tried to catch her arm, she was sprinting for No.12. The door flew open before she had even reached it, revealing Neville's stricken face.

"That was fast, how-"

"What's happened?" she demanded, her voice high and fast. "Where is he?"

Neville pressed himself against the wall to let her past, stammering uncertainly. "Up-Upstairs – living room – he-"

She couldn't wait for him to get the words out – she ran for the stairs. She could see people on the landing ahead of her, crowded around the door to the living room – she barely even registered their faces. She pelted up the stairs as fast as she could, and almost ran headfirst into Ginny, who was hurrying down to meet her. The other girl seized her arms and she gripped her back tightly, still trying to push through the others, desperately searching her face for clues as to what was happening.

"Hermione, wait-"

"Where _is_ he, what happ-"

"Calm down," Ginny said sharply, and her tone cut through Hermione's building hysteria. "You need to be calm, _right now."_

Hermione fell silent, her eyes darting around at the others. She was beginning to realise that everyone was hushed, as if in a church, as if at a funeral. She met Ginny's gaze with renewed urgency, the hair on the back of her neck standing up, heard Hestia arriving behind her.

"He's had hallucinations, right?" Ginny said, her voice fast and quiet. "He's having one now, Hermione. You _need_ to snap him out of it."

Ginny waited for her to nod, showing she understood, before taking her by the wrist and pushing through the clutch of onlookers around the door. Hermione's chest felt tight and uncomfortable as she went, her heart thundering like horse hooves. She craned her neck – the first thing she saw as she reached the doorway was George, then Ron, both with wands raised and pointed, both rigid with tension, standing just inside the door – and then, as she followed the trajectory of their wands, she saw Draco.

He looked so wrong, like a grotesque caricature of the person she knew. His skin was horribly pale – the curse seemed to have spread rapidly since she had been away, an observation that filled her with dread. The gauze that had been taped over his chest must have come loose; thick blood had spread over the front of his t-shirt, and she felt she could see the material distorting around the site of the wound, in the same way that air wavers in heat. Heavy, rasping breaths fluttered in and out of his lips, but he was standing upright, his eyes burning pits in his thin face, his wand drawn. He was pointing it across the room, coiled like a cornered animal, ready to attack at any moment. And his gaze was fixed on… on Harry. Who stood on the opposite side of the room, his hands raised in surrender, his eyes wide behind his glasses. Hermione caught his panicked stare and a flash of understanding rushed between them.

 _Not good. Really not good._

Out of the corner of her eye she could see George and Ron shifting closer, and now that she could see Draco she could sense fear mounting in the air around them. She heard the floorboards creak and knew without needing to look that Hestia had entered the room and drawn her wand. If she didn't do something soon, the situation would be unsalvageable. She could feel the seconds trickling away from them as if watching an hourglass. Without sparing another second to think, she took a swift, decisive step forwards.

"Draco-"

His head flinched sharply towards her, and she caught a glimpse of Ron stepping forwards at her right. She flung out a hand to stop him, freezing in place, watching Draco's wild eyes rove over them. There was no hint of recognition in his face – just a glazed, hunted sheen. His shoulders were heaving in ragged gasps and the blood had made a thick path down his pant leg, rapidly growing wider as it continued to flow. She could feel the desperation of the situation increasing with every passing second and searched for the right words, the right thing to say to him. In the end, he spoke first.

"Don't – fucking – move."

His voice was shaking, but she didn't doubt the threat his words carried. He might have been having trouble with magic over the past few days, but he had let out a hex during his previous hallucination without any hesitation – she somehow knew the curse wouldn't be affecting his ability now. Ron hissed her name, but she couldn't risk looking back at him. Instead, she took another slow step forwards.

"It's ok," she said, doing her best to keep her voice light and calm. "It's me."

Instantly, Draco's wand swung away from Harry and pointed at her head. He glanced warily at the floor a short distance away and his wand arm wavered slightly, as if he were trying to choose between two targets, but then his resolve returned and he decided on her.

"You're dead," he said emphatically. "I don't know how – doesn't matter how long it takes – you're _supposed to be dead."_

He wasn't making any sense, but she could at least understand that he didn't know her. She lifted her hands, palms upright, trying to appear as gentle as possible.

"Draco, who do you think I am?"

He stared at her, his mouth hanging open slightly, blinking hard as if expecting her to disappear. Then, abruptly, his face contorted and he sent a sudden, wild jinx at Harry. It was so unexpected – it was only because he fired as he moved that he missed. Draco never usually missed. Harry ducked, flinching back against the window, and the jinx left a scorch mark on the wallpaper instead. Hestia moved forwards at once, Ron driving in alongside her, and with a dizzy rush of panic Hermione lurched forwards to place herself between Draco and Harry. She held out a hand to the others, shooting them a furious glare.

"Stop, stop! It's fine," she said forcefully, doing her best to take control of the situation. "Don't hurt him, he's ok-"

"Shut up!" he snarled, and red sparks flew from the tip of his wand. He stared at her with so much venom that she almost felt the sting of it, felt her lips quirk. "You take one more step and… and I'll fucking–"

"Draco, please," she broke in, eyeing his wand warily. "Look around. Don't you know where you are?"

His gaze flew around the room before landing back on her face as she took a minute step towards him. A muffled groan left his lips and he doubled over for a brief moment – then he was drawing himself up again, still a little hunched, his wand trembling. He blinked furiously at her, still aiming over her shoulder at Harry. She moved a little closer, but his wand fizzed once again, forcing her to stop again. She could feel tears pricking at her eyes at the sight of him. There was a wild fear in his eyes directed straight at her, and it was so unnerving, so unlike him, that it made her feel like a monster.

"Don't you know me?" she whispered helplessly.

He shook his head violently. " _You're – not – fucking – real_ ," he spat.

"I am. I promise you, I am," she pleaded, moving nearer. There was less than a metre between them now. "Please, just think for a second. Look around. You know these people. You know me."

To his credit, he did look. But there was no recognition on his face, no dawning understanding. There was only terror. He fixed on Harry again and his face hardened. His skin was paper-white now, and she was horribly aware of just how much blood there was flooding out of him. His teeth bared in a snarl.

"You're lying. You fucking lying. I _see_ him."

"I never lie to you."

"If you take one more step I'm going to kill you."

The words dropped from his lips like stones and she froze, her weight shifted forwards, about to move. She held his gaze, even as she felt the others drawing in around them. She couldn't think about them. She looked at him and, for one heady moment, she was hit with the vivid memory of dancing with him at the Yule Ball. His hands had been on her waist and his silvery blue eyes had filled her vision, and he had been so achingly close that everything had stopped. Despite herself she found a smile spreading over her face.

"No, you're not."

Something between a sob and a gasp tore out of him. He shuddered, lifted his free hand to his chest. His fingers came away coated with blood and she felt her stomach twist. She moved on towards him, and, even though his wand was only inches from her now, still he did not act.

"You're not," she repeated, more confident now. "Do you know why? Because I trust you, Draco. I trust you more than anyone in the world. And I know you're someone who would never, ever hurt me."

She closed the distance between them, and with a rush of dizzying relief found that he moved his wand to avoid touching her, still trying to point it over her shoulder at Harry but forced off target slightly. She stood before him, not even daring to blink, watching his gaze skate over her face. His eyes were welling with tears and his face was screwed tightly up. He drew in a shallow, ragged breath. She hesitated, but she could not afford to wait any longer. _He_ could not bear much longer. Steeling herself, she reached out and slowly took hold of his wrist, pushing his wand down a little. He stared down at her hand, and his eyes slid half-closed.

"You're not real."

"Draco, please, you have to listen to me."

On a sudden impulse, desperate to get through, she lifted her other hand. With a thrill of terror, she found the skin on his neck far colder than she had been expecting, although and his hair when she ran her fingers through it was damp with sweat. He stiffened beneath her touch and closed his eyes tightly, a soft whimper escaping his clenched jaw.

"You're sick," she murmured, leaning her forehead against his. "I know you can feel it. You have to trust me. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. Just hear me… Draco, please."

He swayed, let out a rough sob, and then abruptly dropped his wand. She let out a breath she hadn't realised she had been holding as it clattered against the floor and his hands came around her waist, just as they had at the Yule Ball all those years ago. She felt his breath against her face, saw wetness on his cheeks as he rested his forehead against hers. He mumbled something.

"What?" she asked softly.

"I… I fucking see him, Hermione," he muttered tremulously. "He's… I can't tell… what's real …"

"It's ok," she replied, her own voice thick with tears. "I can."

They stood there for a moment longer, and at last she heard the others relaxing around them. Harry let out a sigh of relief from somewhere nearby. People began to speak quietly, as if scared of disturbing the peace.

"God, that was close," George muttered.

"Are you alright, Harry?" said Hestia, her voice still guarded.

"I'm fine. For a second I thought… I'm fine."

As their voices washed over them she felt a deep tremor roll through Draco's shaking body, and instantly she was on high alert. She looked up at him carefully and found his face twisted with pain. The tremor came again and she took hold of his arms as he swayed unsteadily.

"Draco? Do you want to sit down?"

He didn't seem to hear her. His breath caught in his throat and he doubled over once more, clutching at his chest, a moan jerking free. She whipped her head to the side and found Ginny standing nearby, ready for her call, her eyes narrowed.

"Get the nightshade, quickly!" she hissed.

Ginny nodded and darted away towards the door. Even as she went a muffled cry reached her ears and Draco dropped towards the floor. She tried to stabilise him but she wasn't strong enough – all she really managed to do was slow his fall, the two of them landing hard on the ground. She wrapped her arms around him as the merciless seizure took hold of him. His eyes clenched shut and his body stiffened, and then it was happening and there was nothing she could do. She only realised she was crying when Harry appeared, kneeling in front of her, reaching for her shoulders.

"No, no, no, Draco…"

"Hermione–"

"He can't take this now!" she cried hoarsely, tears rushing freely down her face. "He's too weak, it's going to kill him…"

Harry's eyebrows pulled together in sympathy and despair. "Ginny's coming," he said. "It'll be alright."

She could only shake her head, her lips pressed tightly together.

The attack was significantly shorter and quieter than usual, and yet she found no comfort in it. All she could really do was tear her scarf off and press it against his blazing wound, trying to slow the bleeding. By the time Ginny got back he was already limp in her arms, his eyes rolling beneath half-open lids, and yet again he had stopped breathing. She took the nightshade from Ginny with a shaking hand and poured a couple of drops between his parted lips before pushing his damp hair out of his face, leaning in as close as she could.

"Come on," she whispered. "Come on, Draco, please…"

Nothing. Her nerves were jittering like frightened bats and her mind was racing – what if this was the final stage, and Imani wasn't there to talk them through what to do? How was she supposed to know? She needed him to hold on for a little longer, just until Imani arrived, until there was a chance. The moment dragged on and she shook him slightly, desperation enveloping her patience. He was a dead weight in her lap, disturbingly unresponsive, and she found herself begging for even a flicker of consciousness.

" _Draco."_

His mouth opened in a shallow gasp and she felt a sob surge through her, hung on to him as if she expected him to be snatched away from her, returning her other hand to the bloodied scarf on his chest. She let her forehead rest briefly against his, reassuring herself with the breaths fluttering against her cheek. She let go of the scarf again and felt for his hand, still lying on the floor covered with blood, clasped it tightly. Still breathing meant still alive.

As she straightened, another hand moved into her periphery and she watched it lift the bloodied scarf before pressing down again

"Fuck, that's a lot of blood."

She looked up. George was there, looking distinctly shaken, his lips pressed tightly together. Although it was Harry who had reached for the scarf, still kneeling opposite her. Her eyes moved to Hestia, who was in the doorway, murmuring quietly to a silvery patronus hovering by her hand. Her eyes met the Auror's for a moment.

"Will a blood-replenishing potion work?"

She knew the question was directed at her, but she was still trying to make her thoughts coherent. She looked down again at Draco. His fingers bent pliantly beneath her grip. For once, she didn't care who saw her holding him. She realised Harry was still waiting for her to reply and swallowed hard.

"I don't think so," she said.

"I could make one," Ginny volunteered from behind Harry.

"There's no point."

She could almost feel the look that passed between her friends at her bleak statement, and with a deep breath tried to pull herself out of it.

"Thanks," she said. "Someone's coming from St. Mungo's to help."

She tore her gaze away from him. Harry and Ginny bore identical wrinkled frowns, and George's arms were folded tightly. She could see how concerned they were, and how much they questioned what kind of 'help' could change what seemed inevitable. She wanted to explain, but she knew how Imani's plan would sound to them. She didn't like the sound of it all that much herself. So she settled for focusing on Draco, holding his lifeless body tighter.

"You'll be ok," she murmured. "You're too stubborn not to be, right?"

Her only answer was silence.

 **Next chapter will be a biggie I think. Hope you enjoyed the ride**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

 **Oookay, I dropped the ball. I'm sorry, I'm overworked, I'm tired. Managed to snatch some time to write, and I'm determined to finish this. I think I'm going to have two endings - one in a couple of chapters time, and a second one indefinitely. Apologies for the wait - please take this chapter as a peace offering.**

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 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

* * *

Hermione had been waiting for Imani to arrive with the thinly veiled hope that she would be able to provide answers and solutions she was unable to source herself. When Imani did finally step into the room, a duffel bag slung over her back and Hestia close behind her, the look on her face swept away any confidence Hermione had been clinging to.

George helped her to take Draco upstairs after the tense confrontation, while Hestia left to help hurry along Imani. Hestia was adamant that no one was to be left alone with Draco from now on, although the eerie stillness that had settled over him made Hermione doubt that he would be attacking anyone else in the near future. Thankfully, George volunteered to go with her. He seemed uncomfortable, shifting uncertainly from foot to foot near the window, watching white-faced as Hermione _scurgify'd_ off the blood drying on Draco's skin. The wound was open wide, blood welling up faster than she could wipe it away, the skin around the edges scorched black. It looked tender, but when she fixed a new patch of gauze over it Draco failed to react. She laid a brief kiss on his knuckles before re-inserting the IV line, pressed her hand over the gauze in an attempt to slow the flow of blood.

"What did Hestia's friend say?"

Hermione glanced up at George. He was watching them with hollow eyes, leaning against the window, his wand held loosely on his lap, his face distinctly unhappy. She wished she had better news. The episode downstairs seemed to have shaken him, and she found herself wondering how he would cope with another death so soon after Fred. He wasn't nearly as close to Draco, of course, but the two had been starting to form some kind of friendship all the same.

"She doesn't think there's much of a chance. But she had some ideas."

Her voice sounded empty to her own ears. She found herself working her fingers through Draco's, hating how unresponsive they were in her grip. She was now convinced that his fever had disappeared completely – his skin was disconcerting cool against hers. She had heaped another blanket on top of him but it didn't seem to be helping. She held her fingers against his wrist and counted his flickering pulse, and George stood in silence until the sound of footsteps on the stairs had her heart leaping. Hermione sat up a little straighter, still holding tight to Draco's hand.

Imani knocked softly before pushing the door open. She saw Hermione first and smiled, exuding the placating, warm, understanding professionalism good doctors learn to perfect. Then her eyes slid over to Draco, and her face changed at once in the way that clouds roll in across the sky. Hermione could see her calculating fiercely as she put down her bag and stepped up to the bed, see her eyebrows pulling together seriously. No placating smile here.

"Apparently I'm a little late," Imani said, her tone still gentle, "Was there a seizure?"

"He hallucinated," Hermione said haltingly, glancing at Hestia as if for confirmation. "He thought Harry was Voldemort. Then he had a seizure."

She was forced to let go of his hand to allow Imani better access to him, and consented to shifting a little further down the bed. She remained close by. She couldn't shake that protective flare that started burning whenever someone else came close to him, couldn't shake the thought that no one else understood how delicate he was. Imani's movements were firm but temperate as she pressed her fingers against Draco's neck, lifted his upper lip to examine his gums, and then propped his left eyelid open. Retrieving her wand from an inside pocket, she murmured _lumos_ and waved the light carefully from side to side.

"Pupils are unresponsive, pulse suggests tachycardia, slight gum discolouration indicates low levels of oxygen in the blood," she said softly, as if reciting from a shopping list. "Temperature low… I believe you said he had a fever?"

"He did," Hermione said, aware of her own pulse doubling in pace at Imani's voice. "It seems to have… gone."

Imani nodded. "Any reaction from him so far?"

Hermione shook her head. Imani was feeling the sides of Draco's throat. She had so far ignored the glaring wound on his chest.

"Mr. Malfoy?" she said, speaking clearly. "Draco? Can you hear me?"

Hermione waited, watching his face for any sign of recognition. When she received no response, Imani finally reached for the gauze pad and lifted it. She surveyed the injury for a long moment. Then her lips pinched and she replaced the gauze.

"Verdict?" Hestia prompted her, hovering at Imani's left elbow.

The deep, frozen pause before Imani responded said everything. Hermione wanted to be holding his hand for when she spoke, just in case he was still in there somewhere, just in case he could hear them. She clasped her hands together on her lap, unable to reach for him without getting in Imani's way. The medi-witch was still hesitating, still picking her words, and her face had arranged itself into sympathetic regret.

"I was hoping we would have a little more time. I think a seizure usually triggers the final stages of the curse."

"So we're in the coma stage," Hestia clarified, as clinical and calm as ever. "How long does our patient have?"

"The final stage is much shorter than the rest. Judging by his heart rate and the discolouration of his skin, he's deteriorating rapidly. This could be over by morning."

Her words rang in Hermione's head in the way that the tolling of a bell reverberates through a cathedral. She knew that she was breathing rapidly through her nose, trying to remain calm, but it wasn't quite working. She fought the rising tide of panic and helplessness which was making her eyes prickle hotly and her hands shake. She had to be an anchor for him now – she couldn't afford to fall apart. A hesitant touch settled on her shoulder and she leaned into it, immeasurably grateful, George's presence just behind her as powerful as a mountain beneath her feet.

"Our method could still work," Imani was saying earnestly, and Hermione could feel the woman's eyes on her. "Odds of survival might be low, but there are odds all the same."

Hermione nodded, unable to speak – her throat had closed into a tight fist. Hestia moved around Imani to stand before her, her eyes serious and sombre.

"So what's the plan?" Hestia said. "I won't be able to stay long - I'm not comfortable leaving you alone if there's going to be trouble."

"I doubt there'll be trouble," Imani said with an endearing smile. "I don't think he'll be conscious again before the curse reaches its peak. We're at the very end now - we can expect a series of short episodes, one of which will result in death."

Hermione felt like she couldn't breathe. She must be breathing, but she wasn't getting any air. A small voice in the back of her head was explaining to her that the last time he might have seen her was swaying and shaking in the living room, unable to tell if she was real or not - and the last time he had been properly conscious, she had been telling him that nothing would happen while she was gone. So she had lied. And what if she never got to speak to him again? What if he never looked at her again? She didn't realise Imani had crouched down in front of her until the other woman's deep brown eyes were swimming before her own, a sea of placating stillness, a walking stick just within reach.

"This is going to be difficult," She was saying gently. She was using her patient voice. "It's no defeat if you don't want to stay for this."

Hermione almost choked on the sob trembling in her throat. She pulled back slightly, indignantly, her face twisting with disbelief rather than despair.

"I'm not just leaving him, not now - he needs me - I'm not just going to-"

"Alright, alright." Imani's hand rested on her knee, an unobtrusive dam for Hermione's overflowing words. "But if you are going to stay, I'll need your help. I need you to be steady. Can you do that?"

Hermione nodded fiercely. There was no question. She wasn't going anywhere.

Imani offered her a stabilising nod and reached for the duffel bag, from which she drew a rather heavy oxygen tank and a respiration mask. Hermione was certain those couldn't have been lifted so easily earlier. They were placed carefully on the space Hestia cleared on the bedside table, and were soon joined by two new IV saline solutions and, to Hermione's surprise, a bag of blood which glistened with a frosty, wavering film. Imani rose to her feet to examine the existing IV line.

"How long has this been attached?"

"On and off," Harry said helpfully, saving Hermione from trying to speak. "He said it itches. But he hasn't eaten for a few days."

"What's..." Hermione croaked, pointing at the blood.

Imani patted it. "In case of survival, we'll want to get him back on track straight away. Our usual methods won't work for a couple of weeks at least, so - blood transfusion."

She returned to the bag, pulling back the edges to reveal a strange, oblong, plastic suitcase. It opened to show two small paddles with plastic handles, attached to a control panel with spiralling wires. Hermione recognised it, but didn't want to understand what it would be used for. Hestia, on the other hand, frowned at it as if expecting it to explode.

"What is that?"

"A defibrillator," Imani replied. "A muggle treatment for heart failure. It's quite simple to use."

She set about fixing the clear plastic mask over Draco's nose and mouth. Hermione watched, tension trembling in her rib cage like a trapped bird. She hated that he didn't even blink, didn't register Imani's clinical, firm hands on him. She felt like he was standing on the other side of a wall to her, well and truly out of sight, touch and earshot. He was elsewhere.

Behind her, Harry cleared his throat.

"Do you want me to stay and... and help?"

Imani glanced at Hermione. "I think the fewer people the better - this is a small room. There's not much you'll be able to do, to be honest. Although if Hermione needs a break, perhaps you could swap in?"

Harry nodded earnestly. Hestia's narrowed gaze fixed on him and he moved at once towards the door, sharing some silent communication with her. Hestia placed her hand on the doorknob, looking at Imani. Her eyes strayed to Hermione as she spoke.

"Contact me if you need me. Good luck."

"Thanks, Hestia."

Imani's voice was pleasant, professional, dismissive. Hestia left. Hermione sat there on the bed, and she prayed.

 **~O~**

He thought he must be dreaming. And he knew exactly where he was – he was in his room at the Manor, and he had been woken by raised voices from downstairs. He sat up slowly, and was struck at once by a strong sense of deja-vu. He knew the voices, and he had stood up like this before. He felt as if he had been dropped suddenly into a Pensive, walking through old memories in a haze. But as he took a step towards the door a loud hissing filled his ears and he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked, unable to turn his head quickly, in time to see a tall figure in black robes move past the doorway of the ensuite bathroom. He knew he should be scared, but his emotions had retreated to somewhere in the back of his head. He was detached from them, as if floating just above his real body. He watched the doorway, but the hissing began to fade away and the figure did not reappear. The voices downstairs, meanwhile, were getting louder.

He emerged from his room. The walls of the corridor seemed to warp before his eyes, the colours of the wallpaper and the carpet twisting together. He had to focus hard on walking towards the stairs. He remembered this very clearly, although he must have been quite young at the time. He felt young now, felt that overwhelming sense of uncertainty that comes with being a child. The walls of the corridor seemed to stretch high above him, and when he reached the stairs the banister came up to his shoulder. He reached for it, peering down into the half-light of the entrance hall. Several figures were there, arguing, some voices raised, some hushed. He recognised his father's voice, and then a moment later the voice of Rodolpho Lestrade. His uncle. He never usually came to their house, much less in the middle of the night. He could sense tension crackling in the air like lightning.

He began to make his way down the stairs, moving slowly, trying to see into the dimness of the hall. Before he could even take the third step, someone appeared and glided rapidly up the stairs, stopping halfway up. His mother's face was serious but calm, her gaze steady. She placed a hand on the banister, barring the way to him, her other hand resting on the pocket in which she kept her wand. Her face was sharp and angular in the light from the hallway, but he still felt her compassion like a soft wave of warmth.

"Go back upstairs, Draco. You shouldn't be down here."

As he looked at her, he thought he could detect something like sadness flickering in her eyes. As if emerging suddenly from a Pensive, he remembered that he knew this memory, that none of this could possibly be real. The feeling of childish youthfulness fell away simultaneously, and he took another step.

"Draco." His mother had not moved, but her tone had grown sterner. "Don't come down here. Go back upstairs."

"What's happening?" he said. His voice was a thin whisper.

She just looked at him. He realised that he couldn't hear voices downstairs anymore – the manor was silent, eerily so. The skin on the back of his neck prickled and heat rushed over him, followed by an icy shudder. He glanced back at the corridor, and saw with a jolt that it was pitch black behind him.

 **~O~**

Night crept over them, and Hermione alternated between pacing the room and watching the clouded sky out of the window. Imani was quiet - Hermione had the sense that this wasn't her first time waiting for Death to show up. She had brought a book, and read between checking Draco's vitals every half hour. Hermione had nothing to do but watch and prowl back and forth across the room like a wounded animal. Her mind felt frayed string, and as she glared at the tiny square of light from a window a few rooftops away from them, she marvelled at how suddenly things had turned. She thought again and again of the first time she had seen him here, of the way he had looked at her in the kitchen with the others standing by, at the way his lip had curled. His expression burned the corneas of her eyes. She had taken his frustration and rash anger to be directed at her. Maybe it was. Maybe he blamed her - she had caused this. She saw the Battle, raked her memories for some sign of him, of his white blonde hair in the crowd. She saw him dismounting his broomstick on a foggy, cold evening, misted rain slicking his hair to his head, his face flushed with the thrill of flight, his eyes fixed on her like headlights. She saw him lean over her to drop an impossibly light kiss against her neck that sent shivers through her whole body.

 _How did we get here?_

She alternated between feeling like screaming and feeling like weeping. The feeling balled, warped, bubbled in her sternum. Panic lurched out of nowhere and caught her off guard for brief flashes of insanity. She questioned constantly if she was dreaming.

As midnight came closer, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and saw with a jolt that he was shaking slightly. He hadn't really moved, but his limbs had grown rigid and even with the oxygen mask in place she could see that his jaw was clenched. Imani had noticed too and was on her feet, reaching out to feel for his pulse.

"What?" Hermione said, and her voice came out in a strangled rush. "What's - what's-"

"Once we hit the coma stage the seizures are going to be different," Imani said, her voice distant, absorbed in her observations. "They'll be shorter, more frequent. I doubt this is it, though."

It. The dreaded moment when they would need to act, or lose. Hermione crouched down on the other side of the bed and took hold of his hand, felt his fingers clenched into tight, unyielding fists. She ran her hand up and down his forearm, tried to show somehow that she was there.

"It's ok," she breathed. "It's going to stop soon."

After a minute and a half, it did. He grew still, tremors subsiding to still waters. Imani instantly slipped her fingers between his teeth and peered into his mouth, then glanced into his eyes. Hermione could only see white, and her stomach turned over. She looked away, and when she dared to look up again Imani's gaze had strayed to them. Not her specifically - she was looking at the arm Hermione was currently stroking, and Hermione realised abruptly that her gaze had been drawn not by their intimacy, but the curling snake and skull that stood out in smoky black strokes against Draco's arm. Her protective feeling flared up once more and she moved to position herself over it a little more, laying her forearm against his. Caught looking, Imani cleared her throats and stepped back.

"He's stable, more or less." She hesitated, and then seemed to decide to take the gamble and smiled. "This all seems rather complicated, right?"

Hermione looked back at her. Imani squirmed in the silence for a moment before elaborating.

"I mean, Hestia's not really a Death Eater sympathiser. And with you being so prominent in the resistance during the war, I... complicated, anyway."

"Is that how St Mungos see it? Complicated?"

Hermione knew her voice was more aggressive than necessary, but she didn't have the fortitude to hide how she felt anymore. She was still angry that they had refused to treat him, even if there was nothing they could have done. Imani had the decency to wince awkwardly.

"Sometimes," she said, evading the question. "I'm sorry – I was curious. I suppose, if we're successful tonight, there'll be a trial of sorts?"

Hermione hadn't considered that. It was true that Draco was not quite cleared of all charges – the Ministry was still deciding what to do with him. Maybe there would be a trial. She could only hope that Hestia was on their side, and judging by her help it was entirely possible she was. But Hestia's trust was another complicated thing, and Hermione didn't expect it to be handed over just because there were grey patches. The Ministry looked with black and white eyes.

Draco's skin was cold and clammy under her hand. She inched upright and sat on the edge of the bed, pushed his hair back. It was still damp and his forehead was still littered with pinpricks of sweat, despite the drop in his temperature. It all felt wrong. She ran through the list Imani had made upon her first inspection and then forced herself to think about anything else.

Her head broke through icy water and his arms were around her. She turned to face him and saw his panic, saw the adrenaline shivering in his eyes from their fall. He was still holding onto her. He wasn't going to let her drown.

They crashed together in the lonely tent surrounded by snow, stress and blood swimming beneath the surface, and she had never needed anything more than she needed him in that moment. He held onto her as if she was about to crumble into dust.

He climbed through her window, looking so nervous that he was almost unrecognisable, and looked at her as if she were golden. His fingers on her skin were careful as if he was handling something indescribably precious.

An hour later another seizure rushed at him. She tried to talk him through it, but he was still unreachable. She was a lighthouse searching the seas for his boat, but the night was too dark. He didn't even seem to know she was there. Imani returned to them and adjusted the plastic mask, felt for his wrist.

"Temperature's dropping. Pulse thready."

Hermione didn't know if she wanted to hear Imani's running commentary or not. Hearing it hurt. Not knowing would be worse.

She resumed her pacing.

 ** _~O~_**

She sensed the change in him like the smell of rain in the air – she was so attuned to him now. It was different this time – it came on more slowly, and his face twisted with conscious pain. She was back beside the bed in an instant, her chest tight, her heart thundering. She had never been good at waiting for the phone to ring. She grabbed his hand as it curled into a fist.

"Draco?"

He made a noise – something between speech and reaction. She looked up to find Imani sitting on the edge of her chair, book still held in front of her, peering over at them with keen eyes.

"It's different," she said with dry lips.

Imani closed her book, and Draco's body jerked violently. She could almost see the curse sinking its teeth into him. She shifted forward immediately, acting on autopilot, all too aware of the deep red stains blossoming through the gauze on his chest. Her brain flew into overdrive. She hated watching it, hated the way his body became alien when the curse took hold. This seizure was more like those she had seen before, a fact which did nothing to comfort her. It grew like smoke billowing from fire, veins standing out against his skin. His eyes were screwed shut, as always. Hermione tried to keep her gaze on his face, pinpointing the exact second when he stopped breathing. His lips hovered just apart, as if about to begin again, but he didn't. A dark droplet suddenly appeared on his upper lip – blood. Her soul seemed to lurch within her.

"Alright."

Hermione flinched – she hadn't noticed Imani come over. The woman had her hand wrapped around his wrist and her eyes were narrowed clinically.

"Pulse is slowing," she announced quietly. "This may be our moment."

Draco's jerking movements were beginning to slow. Imani pulled out her wand and looked sharply at Hermione. Any of her bedside-manner pleasantries had fallen away. They had crossed into business territory. Her eyes were serious and steady, and Hermione could see her counting the beats against her fingers. Countdown. And then, abruptly, she nodded.

"Pulse stopped. We're going to try CPR before resorting to a defibrillator. Are you familiar with it?"

She felt her stomach clench at the thought, but nodded fiercely. Her concerns were not completely alleviated by the brief flash of relief in Imani's eyes.

"Ok, let's get him on the floor – we'll need a hard surface."

Hermione scrambled up onto the bed to take his shaking shoulders while Imani pulled free the IV line with rapid, decisive hands. Draco weight slumped against her, and again she was shocked by how cold he was. She felt like he was changing beneath her grip. Turning to stone. Together they lifted him down into the bare floorboards. Imani crouched beside him and placed both hands on his chest, one over the other, her arms slightly bent. She glanced up once more, pausing – she seemed to be waiting for something. Seconds fluttered past, and Hermione felt the panic building to a roar in her gut. Quite suddenly, the trembling rolling through his body stopped. It seemed to be the cue Imani had been waiting for.

"You do the breaths, I'll count. Let's go."

She began to count alongside her chest compressions, pushing downwards firmly and rhythmically. When she signalled, Hermione clawed her hair out of her face and bent over. She titled his head back as gently as she could, keeping his mouth open, and fastened her lips over his. His skin felt cold beneath her, and she forced back a sob. She breathed in to him and sat back on her heels, poised to take up the position once more as Imani began again, her face lined with determination. Hermione watched his limp body jerk with each compression, wishing Imani could have angled her arms somewhere else - she was pressing right over his wound. But he didn't seem to feel it, and that sent a chill of fear down her spine

"Hermione, now," Imani said tightly, stopping once more. She looked at her watch, her forehead creasing in a frown, counting the minutes. Hermione didn't want to know.

She leaned over him, taking in his hollowed face, the huge dark circles around his eyes. Even his hair seemed lifeless, ruffled beyond repair. She completed a further set of breaths before smoothing it back as best she could. He hated it when his hair was messy. She felt her chest grow suddenly tight with a thick sob, blinked furiously.

"One more," Imani ground out through clenched teeth. She shuffled forwards on her knees for the third set. "Come on…"

Draco's face remained completely, eerily still. Hermione could feel panic building in her chest. God, it was taking too long. _Why was it taking so long?_ Imani drew back and motioned to her to continue and she brushed at her face before leaning down, pushing air into his mouth. She lingered a little longer on the last one, tracing his lips with her own, silently pleading with him to come back to her.

And then, as Imani was on her third compression, he suddenly drew a ragged, hoarse, gasping breath like a reanimated corpse, his hand closing weakly over Hermione's grip. She sprang forwards at once as he began to cough harshly, pulling him into her arms. His eyelids fluttered briefly before his loose hold on her hand went slack and his head rolled to one side - Imani was beside them like a shot once again, feeling for his wrist with renewed urgency, pulling the bloodied gauze up a little to peer at the wound. His breathing hitched dangerously and Hermione felt her intense relief instantly swamped with blind panic. She caught at him, slid a hand beneath his head to turn him back towards her. Her voice rang out before she could stop it, shrill and shaking wildly.

"Don't you dare give up, Draco Malfoy!"

His eyes cracked open. Two glassy, bloodshot blue-grey circles focused on her, and she was convinced that he could see her. She trailed her fingers over his face, trying to encourage him, brushed her thumb over his forehead to wipe away the pinpricks of sweat.

"Please," she said, more softly now. "Please don't... Don't give up."

His eyes remained on her a moment longer, as if he was trying to memorise ever feature on her face. She couldn't tell if he had heard her or not. And then, without warning, they drifted shut and he was gone, as if he had stepped behind a curtain. The only thing left to indicate he was still there were the loud, rasping, shallow gasps moving unevenly in and out of his lungs.

"Hermione?"

She looked up, blinking back tears, her breath catching in her throat. Imani was kneeling down carefully, holding the oxygen mask. Understanding, Hermione let her fasten it over Draco's face and watched as small clouds formed on the clear plastic surface. She was struck by the grim, tight-lipped expression on Imani's face – anger? Frustration? Dissappointment? Imani caught her looking and twitched her mouth into a slight, apologetic smile.

"Heart rate is back," she said. "He's not going anywhere for now."

"What is it?"

Imani glanced down at the wound, lifted the gauze pad on top of it. Hermione followed her gaze and found the edges still raised and back, saw angry spidery veins still snaking out from it like cobwebs. It hadn't changed. If anything, it looked worse.

"As the theory goes, being technically dead would have removed the curse."

"And it hasn't?"

"It wouldn't heal instantly, but we wouldn't see the same discolouration there is now."

Hermione understood. "It didn't work."

Imani's eyes narrowed, and she nodded shortly. Apparently she didn't enjoy failing.

"We will have another chance."

Hermione reached out blindly and adjusted the strap, freeing a tangled strand of white blond hair. She didn't know what to say. She had a bizarre urge to thank Imani for all she had done and show her the door. She felt like she was only just clinging to him by a thread. At any moment he could be gone. She couldn't see past that eventuality. She didn't know what would happen next. Would she have to take care of his things? Would they have a funeral? What would she do with his clothes? None of it would take shape in her head. She forced herself to breathe evenly, tried to remember that there was still a chance. Even though she hated kidding herself.

"Hermione? Let's get him back on the bed, shall we?"

She sniffed, nodded, and lifted him up again with Imani's help. They got him settled and she set about pulling the layers of blankets back over him while Imani carefully re-applied the IV line. When she was finally done, she found herself unable to decide what to do with her hands. She wrung them together, balled them into fists, wiped them shakily on her jeans. The room was stifling and the sight of him there was unbearable. She had no space to breathe, the certainty of their failure staring her down like a boggart. She muttered something under her breath - she wasn't even sure what excuse she was supposed to be coming up with - and headed for the door.

She barrelled out into the corridor and almost ran headlong into Harry, who had been about to nudge the door open, juggling three mugs of tea. He flinched, the tea slopping out of the cups in small tidal waves, and even as she tried to apologise she found herself crying. She had shrunk back against the wall in an effort to avoid causing more of a mess, but he only deposited the mugs rapidly on the floor and pulled her into a gentle hug. She crumbled instantly, and it was some time before she could pull herself together enough for him to let go. His eyes were wide and his face pale with uncertainty in the face of her outburst, but he remained there all the same, his hand hovering awkwardly near hers.

"Shit, Hermione... Is he...?"

She shook her head, letting out a high, delirious bark of laughter. "Not yet."

He winced. "Not good?"

Another shake. "Really not fucking good," she whispered.

She wrapped her arms around herself and hunched over. All she wanted was to disappear. Even during the war, even when everything had seemed hopeless during the Horcrux hunt, she had managed to hold onto the dream that they could win. She had never felt this kind of inadequacy, this depth of helplessness.

"Hermione..." Harry trailed off, and she felt everything he decided against saying charge the silence that followed. He sighed. "Do you want me to stay?"

She screwed her hands over her eyes. "I don't know what we can do."

"I brought up some tea..."

Her shoulders shook, and she had no idea if she was laughing or crying. She lifted her head and the desperate look on his face as he held out the half-spilt tea actually made her smile.

"Thanks," she said.

He stood with her there in the corridor for a while, trying to talk to her every now and then, but her head was filled with white noise and she couldn't form coherent words to answer him. Her voice had shrivelled. She took a sip of the tea he had brought and felt sick. He took the other mug in to Imani and remained inside while Hermione fought for control in the corridor.

But she couldn't hide forever, and she couldn't bear the thought that something might happen while she was lurking out in the corridor like a coward. She brushed fiercely at her face, sniffed, and returned to the room. Harry had been speaking quietly to Imani, but broke off as she entered and shot her a supportive smile. He offered, again, for them to call him if they needed him and left softly. She wished she had been able to pull herself together enough to thank him properly. Imani smiled at her too - a sad, sympathetic smile that bothered her - and returned her attention to her book.

Which just left him.

Hermione shook off any remaining self-consciousness and climbed onto the bed to lay herself out beside him, interlinking her fingers with his, her head on his cool shoulder. At the very least, perhaps her body heat would help. She could hear his shallow, rasping breathing clearly from her new position, could just about feel his pulse flickering against her cheek. She watched the glow of the candle on the bedside table flicker across his grey skin and traced the scars standing out on his shoulder with her fingertips, keeping up the silent mantra in her head.

 _Please, please don't leave me..._

 **~O~**

She knew she was asleep at once. She was in the house, but it was different – shadowed, everything slightly eerie, as if someone had created the place out of imperfect replicas. She tried for hours to walk up the stairs to the attic, but she could never get to the top. The steps slipped beneath her feet and she clung to the wall, panting, gasping, trying to drag herself upwards. When she finally did, her legs had stopped working properly and she couldn't make it into the room without forcing herself to move, like wading through honey. Draco was inside, sitting on the bed, a steadily smoking cigarette in his hand. She held the door open and reached out her hand for him.

"Draco, help me," she heard her own voice saying. "I can't move – help me."

He turned his head slowly and looked at her. His eyes gazed sightlessly through her. Then he turned his head away again, and became motionless. His face was entirely expressionless. She was filled instantly with indescribable terror. She tried to scream for him, but her voice came out a hoarse whisper.

"Draco – Draco, help…"

Her legs shook and she looked down to find water rushing past her ankles, steadily rising. It swarmed across the wooden floorboards and cascaded down the stairs behind her. She clung to the doorframe as the flood rose to her knees, tried to scream louder but her throat had closed up completely. Draco had not even acknowledged the water, even though it was level with the bed now. It lapped across the cigarette, extinguishing it quickly. The light was disappearing rapidly – he was no more than a silhouette.

 **~O~**

She woke up when his breathing hitched.

She had been dozing against him but flinched awake as soon as she heard the stutter, her eyes fixed on his face. His eyelids were flickering slightly without opening, and his lips were empty of colour. The hitch in his breathing came again and she snatched for his wrist, her heart leaping into her mouth. It took her a while to feel his pulse, and even when she did it was erratic and weak. She blinked back tears and glanced up – Imani was slouched in the armchair, her eyes closed.

"Imani. _Imani."_

Imani opened her eyes and sat upright, blinking owlishly, disorientated. Hermione didn't have time to explain – she could feel the pulse beneath her fingertips ebbing away. She scrambled up to her knees, placing her other hand against his cheek, her stomach clenching into a ball of fear. Imani was beside her in a matter of seconds, feeling for Draco's neck. Even as she did so, Hermione felt the beating under her fingers flutter and then, abruptly, stop. She realised with a jerk that he wasn't breathing.

"Imani-"

"It's ok, Hermione," Imani said steadily. "Just like before, alright? Let's get him on the floor."

Hermione forced herself into movement. Imani had already slipped her hands under Draco's shoulders and was pulling him out of the bed – Hermione scrambled to catch his knees. They tumbled onto the floor and Imani began working to make sure his airway was clear, pulled the gauze away. The wound was yawning wide, and Hermione felt a rush of nausea as she looked at it. She reached for his hand, felt a sob catching in her throat. No matter how much she had tried to prepare herself for the moment, she still wasn't ready. Her eyes remained glued to the blackened blood weeping from the edges of the curse site, and she felt with a shudder that sense of wavering energy she had known when she had witnessed that first attack. She felt like the curse itself was gearing up for a fight, and everything they had tried so far had failed to defeat it. Imani looked up quickly, pulling her out of her daze.

"That's it."

Hermione's heart jerked in her chest. She stared at him, still clinging to his hand – just like that, he could be pronounced clinically dead. Even his hand felt different in hers. His skins was cold, and she was convinced that his fingers were stiffening already. Imani was pulling him into position and placing her hands over his chest to begin CPR - again, she paused before beginning.

"We're going to wait a little longer this time," she said, almost as if to herself. "We need to be sure..."

Waiting was torture. Every moment that passed made him less like him and more like... something other. She hovered, her hands resting on his face, waiting to breathe into him, watching Imani. Her terror climbed higher with every passing second, her lip beginning to tremble no matter how hard she bit down on it.

"Alright," Imani said suddenly. "Now."

They began. Hermione counted the minutes and breathed into his cold lips when Imani gave her cues. Time passed - too much time. Nothing was happening. Hermione could feel her blood beating in her temples, felt like she was being dragged into a void at the bottom of the sea. She couldn't bear to imagine what would happen in the next five minutes - it felt like everything was hanging there, every future she had imagined simultaneously possible until they all were suddenly not. Imani raised her head, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with determination.

"Defibrillator," she barked.

Hermione scrambled across the room and fumbled for the plastic suitcase Imani had placed beside the bed earlier. She dragged it back across the room, dropped it, watched her shaking hands stutter on the latches. Imani was there in an instant, pushing her numb fingers out of the way and flipping the suitcase open. Hermione watched in silent terror as Imani charged the defibrillator and prepared the metal pads, heard the crackling whir of electricity. She almost reached out to stop Imani as the Mediwitch applied the metal pads, had an insane fear that it would hurt him - she thought she must have been hit with the shock too as her lungs burned and her heart trembled. His body twisted rigidly with the blast of electricity, and she could have sworn that her soul twisted too.

Silence. Imani pressed her fingers against Draco's skin, leaned in close to listen. His eyes were dark hollows in his dull skin - Hermione closed her eyes. She wanted to ask what Imani was listening for, ask what they could do, but only one word would leave her mouth.

"Draco?"

 **At least a few more chapters to go, but I'll be honest I'm not sure how much I'll be able to update in the next few months. I'll do my best. Sorry for the delays - this one might be a very slow burner!**

 **Thanks for your patience, and as always for reading.**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

 **WARNING: This chapter will include sexual content. If you're not into that, maybe skip it.**

 **An update!**

 **As for the two endings, I'd suggest that if you need closure you consider about halfway through this chapter ending 1. Who knows when I'll be able to get ending 2 up - hoping there's only a few more chapters to go, but time is an issue at the mo. Either way, I'll do my best.**

 **As always, hope you enjoy it and thank you for the lovely reviews. Means a lot that you understand the difficulty in updating constantly... But for now, read on!**

* * *

 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

* * *

The dream – if you could call it a dream – was strange. He was still standing there, on the stairs of Malfoy Manor, and his mother was still halfway up the stairs towards him, but the carpet was shifting under his feet like sand beneath the pull of the tide. The colours in the wallpaper swam alongside him. The only constant thing was Narcissa Malfoy, as straight-backed and composed as ever. Her eyes flickered with torn emotion, a mixture of sadness and affection that engulfed him. He wanted to speak to her, but couldn't say anything. She took another few steps towards him.

"Go back upstairs, Draco."

He could only shake his head. Sympathetic, she held out her hand to him, as if they were walking down Diagon Alley on a busy day and she hoped to prevent him getting lost in the crowd. He lifted his hand to greet her, and was shocked when his fingertips met flesh. Tangible, warm skin, completely opposed to the shifting world around them. He felt as if he had been deposited sharply back into reality whilst retaining the vision of dreams. He tried to hold onto her, but she let him go and stepped backwards before he could get a grip.

"Go back upstairs," she repeated softly.

He stared at her, and finally managed to force his tongue to work. Words stunted from his lips. "Is this real?"

She only smiled at him.

He kept his hand stretched out, but had the sensation of moving very quickly despite the fact he had not moved. Lights blinked out into darkness all around them; the stairs faded into nothing. The last thing he saw was his mother's pale face in the gathering blackness – then she was gone, and emptiness descended.

He couldn't be sure of anything for a while after that. He thought he could remember odd flashes, like seeing Hermione's face close to his, tight with fear and concern. Like seeing George settling himself in a chair nearby, watching him with tentatively optimistic eyes, spinning his wand between his fingers. Like bright red light from a roaring sunset splashed across the ceiling.

He came back to himself slowly, in the way that the tide begins to roll in. The first thing he was aware of was the peaceful serenity of the sleep he was emerging from – it was unfamiliar by now, after so many months of being startled awake by a nightmare or rush of pain. This was more like floating towards the surface of a pool, letting the water break over his head, feeling the warmth of the sun after a while in the shade. His fingers closed over the uneven surface of a thick duvet, which was providing him with a warm cocoon of soft sheets. His pillows had been stacked up, enabling him to recline partially upright. His eyes felt gummy and heavy, and his mouth was just dry enough to be noticeable. He lay there for a while, enjoying the comfort and quiet, before prising his eyes open. He recognised at once the slanted ceiling of the attic room of Grimmauld Place, the circular window across the room through which gentle, late-afternoon sunlight was creeping. He made an attempt to sit up, and was greeted with a hot flare of pain in his chest. It was far duller than he was used to, but it still made him freeze, and then carefully settle down again before it could get any worse. A half-hearted headache began to lurk behind his eyes, but again, it was nothing compared to his usual afflictions.

The immediate past was bewilderingly unclear. He was aware of brief flashes of voices, cool hands on his burning skin, a roaring agony tearing his body apart, but he didn't really have a single clear memory since settling down with Potter to watch a movie and wait for Hermione to come back from St. Mungo's. And he was sure that must have been quite some time ago. He tried to focus on what brief glimpses he could remember – most of them seemed to involve Hermione, her voice clotted with tears, her face wet. He remembered her pouring over him, her shrill cry piercing the haze of agony, her brown eyes intensely desperate.

 _"Don't you dare give up, Draco Malfoy!"_

She had sounded so terrified. He began to wonder where she was, and almost simultaneously became aware of a hand loosely entwined in his, a weight on the bed to his left. Wincing, careful to not aggravate his headache, he looked and found her there beside him. She was curled up on the very edge of the bed, fully clothed, an open book resting on her knees. One hand was cradling it, the other wrapped loosely around his fingers. She was leaning on the corner of the stack of pillows, her eyes closed, her hair wildly unruly and streaming over the edge of the bed. Grey circles under her eyes and the whiteness of her face suggested she hadn't had much rest recently, but for now she seemed dead asleep.

He would have been happy to lie there and simply take her in for a while, but the sound of rustling material and creaking wood caught his attention and he twisted the other way. To his complete surprise, Potter was sitting in a chair beside the bed, almost completely hidden by _The Prophet._ He, too, looked tired, his hair duller scruffier than usual, and his eyes squinting from behind his glasses. He turned a page of the newspaper, shook it out a little, and then sighed and lowered it to reach for a mug of tea on the bedside table. He glanced up as he did so, and Draco found himself the subject of two weary, bright green eyes.

"Malfoy!" Potter shifted forwards in his chair, _The Prophet_ forgotten. "You're awake!"

"Apparently."

His voice was a hoarse croak and he swallowed hard, trying to loosen it. Potter reached at once for a jug of water and a glass on the bedside table, poured some out, and held it steady. A wide, silly grin had spread over his face, and Draco had to take a moment to stare at him before accepting the water and sipping from it. Despite the progress that had been made between them, it was very odd to wake up to find Potter playing nursemaid.

"How are you feeling?"

He hadn't realised how thirsty he was until he'd tasted water. He gulped the whole glass down and let Potter take the empty cup back and refill it, the fog in his mind clearing a little.

"Good, actually," he said, his voice a little stronger. "What happened?"

Potter laughed softly, shooting a glance at Hermione. "How far back are we going?"

Draco let himself snigger a little at that. He really didn't know. He felt his chest with his free hand, trying to see it as best he could. There was only a light gauze pad covering the wound, and he picked at the corner of it curiously. It wasn't hurting nearly as much as it should be. He freed one of the edges and lifted it.

He was greeted with what looked like an angry, slightly bloody burn about the size of a fist, complete with a vivid scar running down the centre. He stared at it, completely bewildered. The dark edges and mottled veins had completely vanished. It was as if he had simply been caught with a bad stinging jinx. He shifted experimentally and again felt the dull pain – it was not completely mended. But healing, nonetheless. He glanced up quickly at Potter, who was watching him with a lopsided smile.

"Is it…?"

"One thing you should know by now," Potter said. "Don't _ever_ tell Hermione that something can't be done."

"But the curse…"

"You don't remember?"

He shook his head. Potter didn't seem surprised. He picked up the mug of tea and rested it in his lap, leaning back in the chair as he spoke.

"Hestia's friend from St. Mungo's came. She and Hermione managed to save you. Cut it pretty close, by the sound of things."

"Wait, you mean it's…" Draco couldn't find the right words. "You mean it's cured?"

"So they say," Potter said. "Never mind, eh?"

His joke fell on deaf ears. Draco lay there, completely at a loss as to what to say. He blinked hard a few times, wondering if he was asleep – but no, he could feel the bed and the glass of water, and the way the sunlight hurt his eyes was real. He had been so sure he was going to die – he had resigned himself to it, almost brought himself to accept it. And now here he was, life unrolled before him once again, and he had no idea what to do or say. He found himself looking again at Hermione, slowly beginning to understand that they now had some kind of future, that he could look forward to waking up beside her again and again… Potter was still grinning at him, and he tried to pull himself together, clearing his throat.

"Did she come here?"

"Yeah." Potter cocked his head. "You really don't remember her being here?"

"Last thing I remember…"

Draco trailed off. He had been about to say that it had been watching the cowboy movie and falling asleep on the sofa, but in fact he thought he could remember something bad happening just after that – Voldemort had been lurking in the corner of the room and Draco had aimed his wand, had tried to force himself to stand and fight. And then Hermione had been there, telling him that none of it was real, and the person across the room had started to look an awful lot like Potter, and not like Voldemort at all… He looked at Potter quickly.

"We watched that muggle box," he said hesitantly. "And… ah…"

"You tried to assassinate me," Potter said merrily.

Draco's stomach plunged. His dismay must have shown on his face, because Potter laughed and shook his head.

"Don't worry, Malfoy, you didn't even scratch me. Although I'm touched that you care."

He scowled. "I don't _care,_ Potter, I'm not your wife."

"Well, anyway, you had a fit just after Hermione talked you down," Potter continued. "But you didn't really bounce back from this one. Hermione thought you'd lost too much blood, or the curse was getting too strong. But Hestia's friend – Zeta – she came straight from St. Mungo's and set up here. She had a theory that we needed to basically trick the curse into thinking you were dead."

Draco blinked at him in confusion. "What do you mean, how do you trick a curse? It doesn't have a brain."

"Well, technically, it meant you'd have to be dead for at least a couple of minutes."

"I _died?"_

Potter looked a little uncomfortable. "For a couple of minutes. Then they brought you back with muggle first aid. You've been out ever since."

Draco was trying to look at his wound again. "How long?"

"Almost a week?"

That was a shock. He couldn't quite believe that a week had just rushed past in the blink of an eye. Sure, his sense of time had been off recently, but he had never been unconscious for a full week before. He ran his thumb slowly over Hermione's knuckles, wondered how long she had been waiting there, holding his hand, willing him not to die. If he thought hard, he could just about catch the threads of a memory of her being constantly beside him, of the terrible sound of her crying. Potter stood up, drawing him out of his thoughts, putting the paper under his arm.

"There's some of Molly's soup downstairs – I think you were supposed to eat when you woke up. I'll bring some up, yeah?"

"Thanks…"

Draco almost winced, tried to think of a way to backtrack from the genuine gratitude he had just accidentally expressed, but he was too slow. Potter shot him a smile and ducked out of the room, pulling the door to behind him.

Finally alone, Draco pushed the glass of water back onto the bedside cabinet and faced Hermione once more. He was reluctant to wake her, but he needed to hear her voice, needed her to see him. He trailed his fingers gently through her hair, and then, when she began to stir, leaned forwards and landed a soft kiss on her forehead. When he drew back, her brown eyes had opened wide and were fixed on him with an urgency unfamiliar in someone who had just woken up. For a moment she simply looked, her mouth open in a silent gasp, as her hand closed tighter over his. He grinned.

"Hey, nerd."

 _"Draco."_

She flew at him in a sudden rush, the book tumbling forgotten to the floor. Her arms wrapped tightly around him and he found himself buried in her hair as she clung on, as if she expected him to melt away. His chest hurt with the jolt, but he didn't care. He somehow managed to disentangle his arms and wrap them around her waist – she was practically on top of him, completely surrounding him. She drew back enough to kiss him fiercely, and he let himself revel in the heat of her lips and the intensity of the contact. When she finally did break away her forehead remained close to his, and her arms stayed looped around his neck. He felt a definite stir in the pit of his stomach – she was sitting on his lap, her knees either side of him, and the position was extremely reminiscent of things they had not done in some time. He pushed her hair back for a better view of her, enjoying the closeness, the blissful intimacy.

"Miss me?"

She only held on tighter. "Are you ok? How do you feel?"

He reached up to push her hair back. "Don't tell me you got me out of this."

She smiled proudly. "I said I would, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you did."

"How do you feel?" she pressed.

He took stock. "Fine. Hurts less. Kind of foggy," he replied honestly. "Feel good, actually."

Her smile lit her up like Christmas lights. He leaned his head back against the pillows, the familiar tiredness not completely driven out of him yet. She seemed to understand though, and simply climbed off him to sit beside him instead. He made a complaining noise in the back of his throat, but she simply took up his hand and rubbed her thumb over his knuckles.

"Don't ever do that to me again," she said abruptly, her voice more serious than he had been expecting. "Not ever. I mean it."

"I'll try," he said, smirking.

She shook her head. "Not good enough. Not _ever_ again. Understand?"

He blinked, took in her serious brown eyes, the quirk in her lip. He lifted his hand to her hair again, felt her lean into his touch at once. He might not remember what had happened in the past week or so, but she clearly did. And it seemed raw. He nodded.

"Promise," he said softly.

She squeezed his hand and launched into a babble of words – she told him how long he had been unconscious, how the wound had closed and seemed to be healing, how they had been able to take out the IV line, how Imani had been back to check on him since, who Imani was in the first place… He let his eyes slid half closed and let her words wash over him, her hand held firmly in his, feeling for all the world like Lazarus rising from the dead.

 **~O~**

He drifted in and out for the next few days. Almost every time he opened his eyes, Hermione was there. She would be sitting on the window ledge, or on the end of his bed, often reading, sometimes not. He loathed how quickly he got tired. Each day got better, but at least for now he had to make his peace with dropping off midway through conversation. He would start a conversation with Hermione, or with George or Potter when they dropped by to visit, and then find himself waking up hours later without any memory of them leaving. Hermione was patient with his lapses in consciousness, but he could tell that she was as frustrated with being pent up in the attic room as he was.

Salvation came quite unexpectedly when George came up to the attic with news that Bill and Fleur wanted to take a holiday. Draco mistook the news as idle small talk until he recognised the sudden hope in Hermione's face. George glanced at him.

"Normally Ron or I would stay at Shell Cottage while they're away, you know, to look after the Venemous Tentacular and watch the place," he said. "But I've got the shop and Ron's training with Hestia…"

Hermione looked at Draco, her face shining. He blinked at George, trying to figure our what the catch could be.

"They'll be away about a week," George said. "What do you think?"

Two days later, the Weasley's flying car coughed and spluttered its way down onto the smooth sands of the beach which stretched beside Shell Cottage. The journey would have been too far for Hermione to risk side-along, and too far for Draco to Apparate alone - and a Portkey would have been a rough method of transport. Luckily, George volunteered the car. Thanks to the flight they were able to make the journey in only a couple of hours, which were passed with crackling radio music and clouds whispering past the windows. After a slightly bumpy landing, Hermione climbed out of the back seat and hurried around to the passenger side, where Draco was attempting to push the door open. It was heavy and rusted stiff, and she caught at it and hauled it open. As she helped him out of it, George emerged from the driver's side and squinted against the roaring sea wind, his ginger hair waving wildly. He rounded the car and popped the boot, reaching for the large duffel bag they had shared.

"Go ahead," he called, waving them on as she turned to help. "It's nothing."

Hermione shouldered her rucksack, smiling her thanks, and took Draco's arm. He was steadier on his feet with every passing day, but in the violent wind he seemed to be grateful for her help and crossed one arm protectively over his chest as they made their way up the cobbled stone stairs which led up from the beach. The grassy banks shifted colour with the wheeling changes of the breeze. The little cottage sat huddled on the little spit of grass, there on the very brink of the land, the roaring sea wrestling with the shore just a few feet below. The door swung open as they approached, and Hermione and Draco made their way inside.

The house was quiet, but with a calming touch rather than unwelcome. The front door opened into a cosy living room, where two armchairs and a sofa were crowded around an iron fireplace. Soft knitted throws and large, threadbare cushions reminded Hermione of the easy charm of the Burrow. Beyond the sofa was a small kitchen, complete with a dark chocolate-brown dining table and a squat stove. A set of narrow stairs led up to the first floor from the kitchen corner. Hermione took in the tiny Venemous Tentacular in the corner, the round kettle sitting waiting on the stove, and the photographs stuck haphazardly here and there on the walls, and felt like she was getting a rare glimpse into Bill and Fleur's life. Of course she had been to the cottage before, but the circumstances had been rather different to say the least.

"Thanks, George."

She turned when Draco spoke and found George setting down their duffel bag on the floor beside the door. George shook his head.

"Don't worry - here, Hermione, I'll show you around."

Draco, who was standing blearily beside the door, nodded and gratefully sank into one of the armchairs. She could imagine how tired he was - he had only woken up a couple of days ago. She shot him a glance as George led the way into the kitchen, and he shot her a tired wink in return.

"The Tentacular usually gets fed once a day - I think they have some fertiliser flakes in the cupboard for it. And there are some logs and kindling if you want to make a fire…"

"Bill and Fleur make a fire the muggle way?" Hermione said, surprised.

"Apparently Bill takes after dad in some ways," George said with a smile. "I think they left some food…"

He opened the kitchen cupboards to reveal a stock of bread, jams, pasta and rice, and then indicated the fridge.

"Just help yourself to anything."

"Wow, thanks, this is…"

"They're happy to have someone look after the place," George said. "Fleur's worried the Tentacular is feeling neglected."

She looked at it, and found it shaking its leaves excitedly. Draco was watching it with weary amusement, and she made a mental note that he liked them. It would be his birthday soon, and it was about time he had something to look after.

George showed her upstairs and showed her the towels, the guest room, the heating. She nodded along, the weariness from the journey beginning to catch up with her. Bill and Fleur had made an effort to set them up well - there were freshly washed towels folded and stacked in the bathroom, toiletries lined up beside the bath, and a warm, thick blanket spread over the bed in the guest room. No matter where she was in the house, she could just hear the sound of the sea roaring and gulls keening. She followed George back downstairs, where Draco was rubbing his temples tepidly.

"I'll get on, anyway," George concluded, apparently noticing. "Any problems, just owl."

"Thanks, George, really," Hermione said again. "For the lift and everything."

George nodded, shooting a good-natured smirk at Draco. "Enjoy it while it lasts – when you get back we're getting the brooms out. Time to see if your chat matches your moves, Malfoy."

Draco only shook his head in response, and George ducked out of the front door. Hermione went to the window and watched his shadowed figure trot back to the car, watched the headlights speed off into the clouds. She turned to find Draco watching her from his chair, his hair splayed against the knitted rug.

"How about a fire then, Granger?"

His voice was silken in the stillness, and she felt something within her quiver slightly. Holding his gaze as she passed, she headed over to the fireplace and crouched down. She took up the kindling, balled up a couple of pages of newspaper, and arranged two of the stacked logs above the pile in a rough pyramid. She heard Draco shift behind her.

"What are you doing?"

"Making a proper fire," she replied. "Not everything needs to be done by magic, you know."

She set the bottom of the newspaper on fire with the tip of her wand and breathed gently on the budding flames until they began to take hold. After a couple of minutes she straightened and turned to face Draco triumphantly, smiling smugly.

"Well?"

He smirked. "Magic would've been ten times faster."  
She crossed the small space between them and leaned down, placing her hands on the arms of the chair. He shifted to face her better, cocking his head, his eyes narrowing in a gentle challenge.

"Don't you think it's better when it's been made by hand?" She murmured, savouring the closeness of his lips.

"It's perfect," he said softly.

He tilted his head up, the merest centimetre, and she couldn't resist any longer. She delved into him and relished the heat of his lips against hers, and her heart soared at the thought of having a whole week with him, uninterrupted, unchallenged. His tongue tested her lips and she opened her mouth to let him inside, felt the pit of her stomach tighten in excitement.

"How are you feeling?" She gasped, breaking away to breathe.

His hands pulled at her, reaching around to hold her butt and trace the lines of her thighs.

"Well enough," he said, his own voice ragged and low.

She felt one hand flit up her thigh and begin to gently massage her through her jeans, and the tightness in her stomach grew exponentially. Their mouths crashed together once more and she found herself dragging at his sweatshirt, pulling it up over his head. His body rose to meet her and she tore off her own jumper, desperate to feel his flesh against hers.

"Draco…"

His hands were pulling carefully at her bra and his lips touched hers again, forcing her to break off in a moan. His touch sent flickering bursts of electricity through her and sucked the air from her lungs. She wanted more than anything to feel him, to melt into him like butter, to feel his heartbeat pounding against her own skin. She broke contact briefly to wriggle free of her jeans and toss them aside before climbing up onto the chair and carefully straggling him. He was already pulling down his jeans, but she didn't wait for him to remove them completely before reaching for him. His length hardened at once beneath her touch and she kissed him deeply again, felt with a surge of excitement his middle finger trace her opening as if wiping dew from a rosebud. When his first two fingers dipped into her she gasped before she could stop herself, felt her whole body pulse with need.

"Fuck, Hermione…"

His words beat against her ear. She shivered and led a trail of kisses down the side of his neck, sucked gently, grazed his collarbone with her teeth. He arched against her, still curving his fingers slowly in and out. The slow repetitiveness was building her arousal to an unbearable level and she moaned again, gripped his shoulders tightly.

"Now, Draco, please…"

She heard him chuckle throatily, heard his arousal in his voice.

"Say that again."

She put her lips to his ear, planting a light kiss to his cheek.

"Please…"

His hands guided her downwards, and she felt her whole body tighten with anticipation as he entered her. She had been waiting for so long to feel this close to him again, to let herself believe it would even be possible, and the thrill of his heat and steadiness surrounding her was like coming home. She melded herself to him as he guided her up and down, gradually increasing their pace. She had to force herself to hold back, afraid of hurting him should she get too involved in the moment, but then all at once she could feel herself approaching the edge and there was no respite to regain control. She twisted her head at the last second and found his lips, groaned into them as she came, felt the answering crest in his body. As the wave descended she let herself release, let her body dissolve into his.

As they began to come down, she let herself sink onto the large armchair beside him, half slung across his lap. He kissed her again as she settled, his arms wrapped around her, his forehead nuzzling against hers. His eyes were closed and he was breathless, but he looked content. The roaring fire crackled beside them and she drew light circles on his chest with her fingertips, breathed deeply, let his scent and his body surround her.

 **~O~**

The days passed blissfully quietly. The Cottage was so close to the beach that they were able to venture out and let the sea wind tear around their heads, and then be inside with a hot chocolate in front of the fire less than ten minutes later. After the tension and drama of the last month, they were both more than happy to spend their time relaxing. She grew to love waking up and making coffee to bring back to bed where, among the puffy duvet and mountains of thick pillows, she could sip from a large mug and read while he dozed with his head resting on her lap. She trailed her fingers through his hair and let the peaceful stillness wash over them, the sea a constant roar in the distance.

Even in the first few days he seemed to improve drastically - he walked taller and looked healthier, his face no longer sunken and grey. The only thing that was slow to return seemed to be his magic. He was able to perform spells with a wand if he concentrated hard, but no matter how much he tried he could not pull off wandless or silent incantations, and she could see his impatience growing. While she read or played with the Venemous Tentacular, he sat and stared at objects across the room with fierce concentration - a pencil, a book, a photo frame, his wand lying abandoned a few feet away. No matter how much he concentrated, the objects remained unaffected. His party trick of lighting a cigarette from a tongue of fire from his finger was, for now, retired.  
"Just give it time," she called across the room now and then. "It's like a muscle, remember - it'll come back."  
He would shrug.

The cottage provided them with a safe haven in which they could be themselves – where they didn't have to worry about how they acted in front of the others. The newfound freedom brought opportunities to indulge in the rituals of normal relationships for the first time. Which was how she found herself sneaking out of bed on the third morning with a flash of inspiration – she had never been able to make him breakfast in bed before.

She woke that morning slowly, opening her eyes to find both Draco and herself in the exact same position they had fallen asleep in – her arm was around his waist, his forehead against hers, his arm thrown around her shoulders. She watched the pale morning light creep across him and enjoyed the haziness for a few minutes. The first morning they had spent there, she had enjoyed the realisation that she had woken up naturally, and not to the sound of him sobbing and screaming. The room was peaceful and still. He made a small noise and shifted slightly. She wriggled closer, listening to him mumble under his breath in his sleep, his voice humming just above her nose.

"Ngh… 'Mione…"

It wasn't a nightmare. There was no panic. He was just dreaming. She pushed her hand through his soft, unkept hair. He hadn't slicked it back the night before and it was downy and unruly. She pressed her forehead against his and let her eyes close, revelling in the moment, feeling his body quieten and relax beneath her touch. But then the idea hit, and it was too perfect to pass up. She lay there a while longer before disentangling herself from his limbs and sliding off the bed as quietly as she could. She scooped up her dressing gown from the armchair in the corner and clawed a hand through her messy hair. She tiptoed out of the room and down the narrow wooden stairs without waking him and set to work, convinced that cooking could only be as simple as following instructions for a potion. Figuring omelettes were easy enough, she reached for the eggs.

Half an hour later, and two butchered attempts later, she tried for the third time to flip the thickening mixture of egg and butter bubbling in the frying pan. It promptly slumped in on itself and broke apart. Even as she groaned in despair, arms came suddenly around her waist and she felt his lips against the back of her neck. Her attempts at breakfast disappeared from her mind as she leaned back into him, a smile spreading across her face.

"What are you doing to that poor... whatever that is?"

His chin rested on her shoulder. She poked at the mess of egg and spinach in the pan.

"It's an omelette, obviously," she said. "Although, maybe now its scrambled eggs..."

"Hermione Granger," he said softly, his breath ghosting against her neck. "Are you saying you can't cook an omelette?"

She twisted around to face him, and even though she tried to look annoyed at his accusation she couldn't help smiling when she took him in. He had pulled on a loose grey t-shirt, through which she could easily feel the lines of his body when she placed her hands against him, and his hair was ruffled and messy. There was an easy-going, peaceful warmth in his eyes and smile she had not seen in a long time. She reached up to put her arms around his neck, balancing on her tip-toes.

"Shut up," she said. "I was trying to do something nice - make you breakfast in bed."

"Trying being the operative word," he teased. "Since I'm not in bed and that isn't any kind of breakfast I recognise."

She was about to rebuff him, but he kissed her before she could begin and she promptly forgot what she was going to say. She let her body meld itself to his, slipped her hands under his t-shirt to run over his warm skin. By the time he lifted his head, she had forgotten she was even making breakfast.

"Still, I appreciate the effort," he said loftily. "Want me to fix it?"

Rolling her eyes, she relented and moved out of the way to allow him access to the pan. As she settled back against the counter, and watched him reaching for the assortment of ingredients spread over the worktop, she was suddenly struck with a heavy sense of significance. There was barely a day that went by that she didn't think about those days in the attic of Grimmauld Place, where she had been in a constant state of terror, watching him struggle to cling on to life and fail to recognise her in bouts of fever or madness. Again, she was struck by how easily it could have gone differently - if Hestia hadn't found him by chance in Knockturn Alley, if she had been seconds later, if he had left Grimmauld Place before the attack that had forced him to stay... Her chest grew tight and she folded her arms, trying to pull herself together.

"You're lucky I'm such a gifted chef, or we would've been... Hermione?"

He had glanced up and caught her. His smirk faded at once and he hurried to turned off the heat of the stove and reach for her.

"Shit, Hermione, I'm sorry - it's not that bad-"

She was able to laugh haltingly as he took her face in his hands, pushing her hair back. She shook her head.

"No, no, it's not the omelette. Don't worry, I'm just being silly."

"What? What's wrong?"

She hesitated, but his silvery blue eyes were narrowed with concern and she knew if she didn't explain he would assume some wrongdoing or fault on his part was to blame. So she sniffed, brushing quickly at the sudden prickling in her eyes.

"Really, it's nothing - it's just... it's just I thought we'd never have this."

She gestured at the kitchen, at the crumpled omelette. He raised his eyebrows slightly and she sighed, trying to elaborate.

"I thought we'd never be able to do this, be together like this. But we're here, making breakfast and... and joking... I mean you died, Draco. I really lost you, for six and a half minutes. I will never be able to forget that - or how lucky I was to get you back."

Understanding was dawning on his face and he had grown serious and quiet as she spoke, listening to her intently. He took her hand, his thumb moving gently over the back of her hand. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

"I just feel lucky," she said at last, with a watery smile. "I'm just grateful that it's turned out like this rather than..."

She trailed off but he nodded. Rescued from finishing the thought, she moved closer and rested her head against his chest, holding on to him. His hand drew slow circles on her back, and she felt the tightness in her chest ease. The fact that she could lean against him without worrying about his wound was enough alone to subdue her anxiety.

"Well, what if you'd never read my letter in detention?" he said lightly. "If you weren't such a know it all, this would never started in the first place."

She managed a laugh and he drew back, waiting for her to return his gaze before speaking.

"I'm not going anywhere, Hermione. I'm right here."

She nodded, pushed his hair back. "Me too."

His eyes softened when she smiled, and he turned away from her to take hold of the pan again.

"Fucking hell, there's no saving this now. Reckon we'll have to buy the Weasels some new eggs at the rate you've gone through them."

And she let herself laugh and put her arms around his waist in an echo of his greeting moments earlier, resting her forehead against his shoulder and soaking up the moment.

Time ran away from them all too soon. A week was not long enough to spend there - the evenings spent in front of the fire and days walking along the white sands could have gone on forever. But, of course, Bill and Fleur had to return from their trip eventually. There was a world to return to after all – Draco's record with Hestia and the Ministry still had to be dealt with, and Hermione owed Harry her help with the ongoing attacks from the rogue Death Eaters and rebuilding Hogwarts. _  
_As the week drew to an end, they ventured out further than before and took the coastal footpath out onto the cliffs. Bundled in thick scarves and coats, they huddled into each other against the wind. But the air was invigorating, and the winding paths led up and down the cliff side over great craggy shelves and steep heather hills. They stood together on the brink, watching the azure sea shifting gently below, and she took the chance to enjoy the weight of his arms around her shoulders and his fingers linked through hers. He kissed her softly on the cheek, and she resolved to retire to somewhere out here one day in the future. Somewhere quiet and calm by the sea, where they could walk and sit by the fire and exist together. They continued along the long walk to the pub, reserved for dog walkers and hermits, and sat at a haphazard table on mismatched chairs. She noted the ease with which their hands lay entwined on the tabletop, the way he was content to chatter about anything and everything, the way the soft light warmed his features and electrified his white-blonde hair.  
They ate at the pub - which served full roasts with huge crusty potatoes and thick gravy - and wandered back to the Cottage along the cliff side with a bottle of red wine tucked into his coat pocket. That night she sat sideways on his lap in the huge armchair, as they had the first night, and tried not to think about the fact that they would have to leave soon.

 **~O~**

The first nightmare he had since arriving at the cottage caught him off guard. He awoke with a ragged gasp, the terror still pulsing behind his eyelids. It was dark, and for a moment he couldn't tell the difference between the dream and reality. He flailed, choked on a cry of pain as his chest seared.

But it wasn't real pain. He recognised the rough sheets of Shell Cottage, the curve of Hermione's neck just inches away from him. He froze, shivering as the film of sweat on his skin cooled rapidly in the chill air. Something shifted on the bed behind him and a small hand came to rest against his cheek, moved over to his neck. He remained motionless, still wrestling with what was real and what wasn't. But then his eyes adjusted to the remaining darkness, and he could see her. She was still asleep, but she had reached out for him unconsciously all the same. He listened to his own racing heart and reached for her with trembling fingers, felt her warm skin and coarse hair. Real. His anchor, as always.

He watched the moonlight on her face and watched her hair trickle through his fingers. She lay there beside him, one hand resting loosely on his neck, her lips slightly parted. He took the limp fingers and kissed them carefully, laid them back down as gently as possible. He always loved the peacefulness of her sleep. It was a skill he had yet to master - to just drop calmly off into blissful emptiness and not fear what you might find. He always slept better with her there, but tonight was difficult. Tonight his wound hurt and his head throbbed, making him flinch with the memory of what it had felt like at its worst. His body was restless and fidgeting, refusing to relax. He'd slept so much over the last few days that it was no wonder his sleeping patterns had been thrown out of whack. He lay there for a while, watching the way her eyelashes twitched and her eyes moved sporadically, before pulling himself upright and wriggling with some difficulty off the bed.

He retreated to the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror. He could see that he was healthier, that his skin was finally losing the bloodless, translucent quality that had made him seem like a corpse for the last few months. The ugly wound on his chest was still vivid and red, the scar raised and tender, but he no longer had to wear the bandages. He hated the sight of it, but it did seem to be improving. He pushed his hair back from his face and splashed cold water over his skin, tried to remember what he had been dreaming about. He was sure the snake had been there. He screwed his eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe, trying to chase the panic out of his blood. He couldn't figure out why the dream had affected him so much. But the more he thought about it, the more resurfaced – it had been about the snake at first, but then it had shifted to that night in the forest. Nott had been gasping for breath, but the Auror had been standing there unarmed, staring at him in fearful surprise. His arm had moved upwards and green light flashed from his wand – it lit up the trees in a vile shadow-play. She fell, her eyes fixed on him. And then, as he stared at her lifeless body, the snake reappeared and slithered towards her, its eyes gleaming, something tall and pale emerging from the trees behind it…

Draco drenched his face in icy water again in an effort to drive the dream out of his head. He hadn't thought about that for a while – not since he'd had to tell Hestia what had happened. He could only assume that the memory had come to the surface because they would be returning to Grimmauld Place that afternoon, meaning he would inevitably have to sit down with Hestia again. He had no idea what she and the Ministry had decided to do with him. He would most likely have to attend a trial of some sort. The thought of sitting there in front of the Ministry, Hestia's calculating gaze skimming over his report, a dozen judgemental eyes staring him down made his stomach knot.

He raked his fingers through his hair and returned to the bedroom, where Hermione was still curled on her side facing him. She was burrowed into the duvet, her hair emerging from the top of the cocoon she had wrapped herself in and spreading across the pillow. The distant sound of crashing waves against the shore took some of the edge off. He sat down again on the edge of the bed, but he couldn't relax. His eyes wouldn't close, intent on tracing the light of the dawn as the night turned from black to blue to grey. He sat there for a while longer until the hands of the steel clock on the wall crept towards 7am. Eventually he gave up on sleep and got up again. He stepped into the shower and breathed in the steam, felt the hot droplets beating against his skin. The wound stung indignantly. He squinted through the water clumping his eyelashes together at the bottle of shower gel on the shelf and concentrated. Nothing. He wet his lips and stared harder.

 _"Accio,"_ he muttered.

The bottle sat there, undisturbed. Frustration stung along with the wound and he snatched up the shower gel by hand. His wandless magic was still completely unresponsive.

By the time he came out, towelling his hair dry, Hermione was stirring. Her brown eyes emerged out of the mass of bushy hair and he managed a smirk.

"Hi, fuzzball."

"You're already up?" she squinted around, looking for the clock. "What time is it?"

"Early," he said. "Go back to sleep."

He sorted through the clothes piled on the chair in the corner of the room, retrieved a grey t-shirt. He kept his back turned as she sat up, making sure he had pulled the top on and tugged it straight before seeking out a clean set of boxers. He knew she had seen the scar almost daily, but now he couldn't help but feel self-conscious about it. He hated it for slowing him down so much, for rendering him incapable of doing anything beyond Muggle capabilities. It was a lasting signature from Bellatrix, from everything he was still guilty of from that time. He and Hermione had spent the last week in Shell Cottage as if they were living out a fantasy. They had made a point of not discussing anything about Death Eaters, or the Ministry, or even their plans after they returned to Grimmauld Place. Their silence on the topic was constantly present in the room around them.

"You ok?"

Hermione was sitting up, her knees drawn to her chest, blinking sleepily at him. He dragged on a pair of jeans, retrieved his wand from the chest of drawers beside the chair. He didn't know why he insisted on carrying it around with him when he could barely use it. He nodded curtly.

"Fine. Go back to sleep."

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know," he said honestly. He could hear the gulls and seabirds beginning to call to one another across the sea wind, and their high voices drew his voice towards the window. "Maybe I'll go for a walk."

"I'll come too," Hermione said, stifling a yawn. She scooted to the edge of the bed, slowly, reluctant to emerge from the duvet.

"You don't have to."

"I want to," she insisted. "You want to have breakfast first?"

He was about to decline, but she looked up at him again and her eyes were warm and muffled with sleep, her hair unruly around her face. He felt the stiffness in his lungs ease and smiled. His feet carried him over to the bed and he leaned down to plant a soft kiss against her cheek. He felt her hands on his chest, moving up to rest on his shoulders.

"Does it hurt today?" she said softly.

He shook his head. "What do you want for breakfast?"

Her smile grew wider. "Pancakes?"

He let out a bark of laughter. "Pancakes. Gotcha."

He straightened up and headed for the door, glancing back over his shoulder to watch her wriggle off the bed and stretch her arms high above her head. Something in the pit of his stomach twitched, but before he could change his mind about making breakfast she was already slipping into the bathroom and he heard the shower turn on. He smirked and headed downstairs, making a mental tally of what they had in the cupboards.

He had barely even started to stack the ingredients together on the worktop when a sharp tapping drew his attention to a large grey owl on the windowsill. It had a scroll of parchment tied to its leg, and its hooded amber eyes were fixed on him intently. He put the flour down and crossed the kitchen to open the window. The owl made no attempt to hop inside, instead simply holding out its leg. He barely had time to untie the scroll before it had shaken him off and disembarked, not waiting for him to write a response. It's large wings carried it off into the distance at a rate of knots, and before long it was no more than a distant speck. He frowned at the parchment, and instantly recognised Hestia's pointy handwriting.

He contemplated putting it aside and enjoying the morning as planned, his mood having only just lifted, but he hated not knowing. A sigh heaving through his shoulders, he broke the seal on the parchment and unrolled it. A second note fell out, dirty and watermarked, clearly older than the letter itself. As he scrambled to catch it, he caught sight of the elegant, slanted letters on the front and froze. He blinked several times, lifted the folded envelope closer. It bore only a single word – _Draco._

His fingers clenched convulsively over the paper. He was seized by a sudden inability to think. His gaze moved from one letter to the other. There was only one thing a letter like that could mean, but his brain was unable to explain to him what that one thing was. He looked again at his own name scrawled on the envelope, slightly distorted and blotted by water. Again his mind stalled. Swallowing hard, he looked instead at the letter, shakily making out Hestia's handwriting. He got through the first few lines before his hands were tearing open the other envelope, his heart thundering in his chest and his eyes stinging.

 **~O~**

Hermione's hair was still wet by the time she trotted down the stairs, pulling her jumper on over her head as she went. She couldn't smell breakfast, and began to wonder if Draco had headed out onto the beach already. He'd been in a strange mood that morning – she expected him to break off for some time alone.

"Draco?" she looked around for her boots as she made it to the bottom of the stairs. "We don't have to have breakfast first, if you'd rather…"

She looked up and trailed off. He was standing by the kitchen table, his shoulders very straight, a collection of ingredients for breakfast abandoned on the worktop behind him. He was reading an unrolled piece of parchment, and his face was extraordinarily pale. His mouth was fixed in a hard line, his eyes shimmering with a kind of severity that instantly had her on edge. And gripped in his other hand was a watermarked scrap of paper, in which she could read in wobbly handwriting _'Draco'._ She felt her mouth go bone dry. His eyes skated across the page, and then after a couple of moments lifted.

"This is a letter from Hestia," he said. His voice was monotonous, numb, but she could see everything he was holding back trembling behind the words. "Do you know what this is?"

She kept her mouth shut. He lifted his head and looked at her.

"Do you?"

She couldn't have spoken if she wanted to. Her hands gripped the banister, so tightly that her nails hurt.

"She says it's my father's suicide note. She says ''we' thought it best not to say until you were recovered'." He paused, swallowed hard. "What does she mean 'we'?"

"Draco-"

"How long have you known?"

She knew better than to lie. She closed her eyes, panic beating hard in her chest.

"Since your last hallucination. The last bad one with Harry. When Hestia came to tell me about Imani, she was also coming to tell you about your father."

Her voice was shaking, thin and halting in the unrelenting silence she was met with. He was just staring at the letter, at the watermarked paper. His face was a stone wall. She rushed to elaborate, words tumbling over one another in her haste to explain.

"I was scared that if you knew, if she told you, you'd give up. You were really sick, Draco, and with the hallucinations and everything… It would've been too much…"

"Alright." His voice was dangerously low. "Makes perfect sense. So why didn't you tell me when I woke up?"

"I… I thought…"

"Thought what? That you knew better? That it would save my _feelings?_ "

His voice was dripping with icy sarcasm, and it made her feel like she was shrinking. She couldn't take the way he was looking at her, the complete disdain in his eyes, the way his lips curved into a smirk that conveyed more anger than a glare ever could.

"Draco, I'm sorry. I was trying to protect you-"

"Protect me?" he laughed and turned away. He tore his coat from the hook by the door and dragged it on roughly, stuffing the letter into his pocket. His wand, lying on the kitchen counter, was also snatched up. She watched, aware that her whole body was trembling, her lips pressed tightly together.

"Where are you going?"

"How the fuck should I know?" he snarled.

The next second he was out the door, and it was slamming loudly behind him. The silence that followed was deafening.

She stood very still for a while, doing her best to fight down the tidal wave of guilt that was rearing up in her chest. It was no use. Her eyes were stinging with hot tears and the trembling would not leave her hands. She pushed her hair back, trying to take deep breaths, trying desperately to think of something to say. There was nothing she could say. She had not even considered bringing up the subject of Lucius Malfoy over the last week. She had been so engaged in his recovery, so happy to spend time with him without the others, that the conversation she'd held with Hestia over a week ago had slipped out of her head like a half-formed dream. And yet, now that she was faced with the reality of her failure to tell him, it seemed impossible that she could have neglected it for so long.

After an age of agonising over what to say, she forced herself across the room and peered out of the kitchen window. It took a few moments, but eventually she caught sight of him over on the grassy banks near the sea. He was sitting down, his head held in his pale hands, his white blonde hair waving violently in the wind. In his black coat and jeans, he looked like a hunched bird.

Getting up the courage to go out there after him was more difficult than she could have imagined.

The wind tore at her face as soon as she emerged from the cottage. Her feet skidded and slipped in the sand as she made her way towards him, the damp sea spray peppering her cheeks with stinging flecks of water, her ears aching from the roar. Every step towards him made her feel smaller, and everything she thought of trying to say to explain felt pathetic. He didn't look up as she drew near, and when she stopped beside him she had to work hard to get the words out.

"Draco… I'm sorry… I'm just… I'm so sorry."

His grey-blue eyes were fixed on the sea, his mouth an unrelenting line. She crouched down in front of him, too scared to reach out for him. She took a deep breath.

"I was completely wrong to keep it from you. I should never have known before you. At the time, I thought it was the right thing to do. But I was so wrong and… and I'm sorry."

He turned his head slightly away from her. It was enough to break whatever composure she had put on at the front door and her lips trembled.

"Draco… Please don't…"

Her voice cracked and she buttoned her mouth shut, ducking her head. Even as her throat clogged with grief, she felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up sharply, not daring to believe it. He still wasn't looking at her, but his hand was on her all the same, and his face had softened immeasurably.

"I know why you didn't tell me," he muttered. "It's ok."

"It's not," she protested. "I'm sorry, I was-"

"Trying to help," he said, cutting across her. "I know."

She could sense that he had something he wanted to say, and resolved to let him speak in his own time. His lips parted and closed several times, and when he finally did approach speaking his voice was so quiet that she almost didn't hear him above the turbulent wind tearing around them.

"I killed an Auror."

She didn't understand the words. She turned them over in her mind, tried to decipher them. Because they couldn't mean what they seemed to mean. Before she could respond, he was already speaking.

"We were sent to capture a team of Aurors who were fighting back against Voldemort when he was in power. I always tried to stay out of the way during missions, but this time I fucked up. I ended up in the middle of it. Nott got himself into trouble. It was just us and her – the Auror. She came at me. He was dying. I reacted."

She stared at him in silence. He looked at her briefly, and then returned his gaze to the sea. She tried to read him, but she could only see the wall. It was trembling, and she could see the betrayal and grief still flickering in his face, but she could also feel a distance between them. A kind of distance she hadn't felt for weeks now.

"I hated it," he said suddenly, as if in answer to a question. "I still hate it. But I can't take it back. It happened."

"Does Hestia know?"

He nodded briefly. "They were friends."

Hermione stared at the grains of sand beneath them. She wanted to comfort him, but the words died in her throat. All she could think about was the way Hestia had looked at her when she had first confessed her relationship with Draco.

 _"Even if your ex-boyfriend does have a heart of gold deep down – do you really think it changes anything? If you knew what he did while he was a Death Eater, would that make you less likely to sing his praises quite so enthusiastically?"_

 _"I know him. Whatever he did, he was forced into it. We've all done things we're not proud of to protect the people we love."_

 _"Have we?"_

Hestia's query, spoken so lightly and calmly, echoed in Hermione's ears. Her own words suddenly felt inanely simplistic. She had to try to cling to the truth of them, to know how much worse he must feel about it, but hearing it out loud brought the war into their relationship in a way it hadn't been before. She couldn't have believed he could have got away with doing nothing at all during all that time under Voldemort's rule – but she realised now that she had been hiding behind the belief that he had never really done anything to warrant a trial from the Ministry.

Killing an Auror was no small thing.

She realised that she had sat in silence for too long.

"It wasn't your fault."

"No one made me do it. I was just scared. She died because I was scared."

His voice was shaking with self-loathing, and she found herself rising to his defence despite her reservations. She had to shake off the shock of the news. She knew him – she knew who he was. She shook her head.

"It was self defence. It was a war. It shouldn't colour the Ministry's opinion of you."

"Does it colour yours?" He rose sharply to his feet before she could reply. She hated that she was relieved. He smirked humourlessly down at her. "So, then – we both had secrets."

"Draco…"

"We should pack. We're due back in a couple of hours."

He set off for the house, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his stride quickly leaving her behind. She straightened up slowly, and it was a few moments before she followed him, the gulf hanging between them all the way.

 **~O~**

They packed their things in near silence. The golden bubble the cottage had been for them both for the last week had been rudely pierced, and it was clear that there would be no fast recovery from the break.

He wished he hadn't told her. He wished he'd never got the letter. He wished none of it had ever happened at all.

Wishing was abundantly futile.

When they had packed their things away and fed the Tentacular one last time, Hermione held out her hand for him to take. He pulled his bag onto his shoulder, noting with frustration the residual shard of pain in his chest as he did so, and met her brown eyes briefly. She was looking at him with the smallest hint of hesitation – just enough for him to know that the closeness they had enjoyed had been roughly derailed by the mornings revelations. She had lied. He had killed. They were back to square one – that hard, familiar impasse.

Her had pulled him with her through airless, twisting space until they Apparated onto the street outside Grimmauld Place. He let go of her hand at once, and she ducked her head and made her way towards the front door. He followed, and was more grateful than he cared to admit to find George opening the door to greet them. He felt a grin spread over his face as the other boy's eyes brightened, and even found himself greeted with a rough clap on the shoulder.

"Not got the hint yet, Malfoy? Honestly, are you ever moving out?"

"Just as soon as I can – I don't dress this well to find ginger hair all over me every time I sit down. You Weasels shed like cats."

"We've always been blessed with thick hair – correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm guessing you've got the receding hairline genes?"

George dodged the elbow Draco swiped at him and grinned at Hermione, proud of his dig.

"Good timing – we were actually about to play a round of Quidditch – assuming you actually have the skills to back up all that bragging you do, Malfoy?"

"Quidditch?" Hermione frowned. "What about all the Muggles?"

"Hestia sorted us permission for a concealment spell above the park," George explained, pointing past them at the park across the road from them. "As long as we're not seen carrying the brooms, and we remain within the restrictions, we're all good."

Draco's heart leapt with real excitement, the ugly mood that had started the day evaporating almost instantly as he took in the long black bags leaning against the wall behind George. He now recognised them as housing brooms, and his fingers twitched with anticipation. He couldn't remember the last time he had played, but he knew how much he missed it. And if Potter was playing, he knew he would be in for some decent competition too. He nodded at once, and George glanced over his shoulder at the hallway.

"Dump your bags, I'll hurry the others along. We don't want to lose the light!"

The others turned out to consist of Potter, Ginny, Pavarti, Thomas, Finnigan, Ron Weasley, Luna and, after much pleading from Ginny and George, Hermione. That made five people per team – it would do, despite the varied ability. Draco noticed the way Weasel and Finnigan deflated visibly at the sight of him and the additional flash of anger in Weasel's eyes, but for once he decided to avoid conflict. Even their sour moods couldn't dampen his spirits at the prospects of Quidditch. Hermione looked at the broom George handed to her unhappily, and Draco found himself letting out a laugh he didn't even have to force.

"Don't worry, nerd, I'll catch you if you fall."

She shot him a smile, and he felt some of the tension between them melt a little.

They made their way across to the park with the odd-shaped bags. The evening had left the area relatively deserted anyway, but they went behind the bushes to find the designated area Hestia had mapped out for them all the same. From there, they were able to get out the brooms and take off, advancing to the cloaked space above ground where they could play. Draco couldn't even wait to help Hermione mount her broom – within seconds of arriving he was off, the cool air sending electricity through his veins as he soared upwards, his blood pumping with adrenaline. The clouds that had gathered in his mind from that morning cleared, even if he was still uncomfortably aware of the two letters in his pocket as he slowed down to hover above the park. Potter flew up first to join him, looking equally thrilled to be flying again.

"You're looking better," he called as he approached. "Recovery going well?"

Exchanging pleasantries with him still felt strange. Draco raised his shoulder in a shrug. "Well enough that I'll be able to beat you hands down. Slow enough that you should feel bad about losing."

Potter rolled his eyes. "Well, anyway, it's good to see you up and around."

"Not sure if you'll still feel that way by half time," Draco goaded back, smirking.

They were joined by the others, who quickly formed two teams – Potter, Ginny, Weasel, Hermione and Finnigan on one, and George, Pavarti, Luna, Thomas and himself on the other. Due to the numbers they would have to go down to only one beater and chaser per team, with the third member varying between the two roles throughout the match. The remaining two members could take up keeper and seeker. Draco firmly volunteered as seeker, and no one seemed to have the stamina to disagree with him. George took beater-chaser, Pavarti chaser, Luna beater and Thomas keeper. They were up against Potter as seeker – unsurprisingly – Ginny as chaser, Ron as keeper – Draco sniggered and had to stop himself from humming _Weasley is our King_ as he took up his position – Hermione as beater – Draco allowed himself a louder laugh for that, earning himself a dirty look from her – and Finnigan as beater-chaser.

Judging on little more than assumption, Draco picked out Luna and Pavarti as his teams weak points. He was quickly proved wrong. Although Luna did tend to get distracted by her own thoughts, she was a fierce beater when paying attention. Pavarti was a decent chaser, too, although Ginny's skill was tough to match. It was Thomas rather than they who slowed them down, missing a couple of easy shots near the start of the match. Hermione, unsurprisingly, was not quite as willing to take up the challenge – her face creased with distaste every time Weasel yelled at her to beat a bludger at someone. Draco couldn't help but find it both comical and endearing – he knew she hated it not only due to her fear of brooms, but also since she was terrified of actually injuring someone. She'd seen one too many gruesome Quidditch accidents to be comfortable sending a bludger at someone's face. But between her unwillingness and Thomas' occasional fumble, the two teams were not so differently matched.

The space, however, was small enough that the snitch was not so great a challenge to find. Draco caught it within the first half hour, winning the first game; Potter caught it within the next twenty, stealing the second. They played on all the same, at least until the light began to fade and the air turned colder. Breathless from exhilaration, and fairly evenly matched for scores, they eventually agreed to call it a night. Hermione's face was the picture of relief. They touched down behind the bushes and packed up their brooms, and Draco found himself able to relax again. The disastrous morning from the cottage would need to be revisited before long, but the flight had cleared his head. Despite the steady ache in his chest from the exertion, despite the unsteadiness in his legs which warned him he may have overdone it slightly, he felt lighter.

They left the park with the brooms packed neatly into their long bags, George and Thomas carrying the crate of balls between them. The streets remained clear, thankfully preventing them from having to explain the odd sight to any passing Muggles. Draco took the moment to enjoy the rush of blood in his limbs, the fast breath rushing in and out of his lungs. He still relished it. He felt like he was finally becoming real again.

He paused on the street to glance over his shoulder, looking for the others. George and Thomas were deep in discussion about beater tactics, while Ginny and Hermione were laughing at some joke or other, Hermione clearly thrilled to be back on solid ground. Weasel was lagging behind the others, still glowering, perhaps still put out by his inclusion. Potter had stopped nearer Grimmauld Place. He had been carrying the Snitch in a separate box, the catch of which was now coming loose. He came to a halt, trying to wrestle the old, lop-sided ball back into its box. His struggle was rather comical, but any trace of a smile vanished from Draco's face.

Because behind Potter, three hooded dark figures had materialised there in the street. And within a fraction of a second, the sense of weightless freedom had evaporated, firmly replaced with a different kind of adrenaline as the figures lifted their wands in unison, moving forwards in practised formation.

"Potter!"

Draco's reaction was instantaneous, his old reflexes that had kept him alive throughout the war jerking back to the surface. His wand was already drawn, even as he ran, but he was never going to hit all three of them. He switched to plan B - he sent a wild, stray curse in their direction just before he barrelled into Potter's unsuspecting back, taking them both to the ground. Potter struggled, alarmed, but Draco was already surging back up to his feet to point his wand at the Death Eaters. His heart was thundering wildly, panic sending cold chills down his spine one after the other. They were still advancing, though his attack had set them back a little. He held his wand up, hoping desperately that they didn't know how much trouble he was still having with magic. His prior reputation for duelling was all he had to carry his bluff. They slowed, and he could feel the eyes behind the masks fixing on him. He heard Potter scrambling upright behind him.

"Get to the house, call Hestia-"

He broke off as Potter's wand appeared in line with his own. He was about to demand that Potter stop playing a hero and get back to the goddamn house and call the bloody Aurors, but one of the Death Eaters returned fire before he could speak. Harry blocked the attack and sent a volley of spells back – Draco focused everything he had and, like squeezing blood from a stone, managed to produce a bombarda strong enough to affect one of them. The effort left him feeling sick and shaky – an extremely unwelcome development. He could hear people yelling, caught sight briefly of the others scattering - Seamus was sprinting for the house, hopefully to call for help, the others spread across the road. Two of the Death Eaters broke off to zero in on them, and the panic in Draco's gut became a knife. He had no doubt that the Death Eaters would overpower them. Their only help was that Hestia got there pronto. He searched desperately for Hermione – George was standing in front of her, trying to push her backwards towards Grimmauld Place, fending off curses from one of the Death Eaters as he went.

A burning pain tore across his arm and he staggered, managing to avoid losing his footing. His distraction had cost him – the last Death Eater was still there, still coming at them. Potter was defending them well, but there was a sense of rage and spite to the Death Eater's attacks which made Draco doubt he would give up easily. He tried to help, but once again his spells were to weak to do any damage. He swore aloud in frustration. They were backing away, even as Potter duelled, attacks from the Death Eater coming thick and fast.

 _"Levicor-"_

 _"Glaciatio."_

 _"Diffindo."_

 _"Expelliarmus!"_

The wand in Harry's hand flew free, and Draco's stomach lurched. The Death Eater raised his wand. So Draco did the only thing he could think of - he leapt in front of Potter and put everything he could into a protective shield. His head began to spin uncontrollably just before the Death Eater's spell hit - rather than diffusing the curse, the shield simply formed a block between them. Draco saw fire roaring out against it, billowing around its edges, felt the rush of heat against his face - and then he was thrown abruptly backwards, off the ground, and the heat was everywhere. He was just about aware of impacting with something before a second something hit him hard in the head. The world was tossed into a blaze of light and odd, distorted sounds - he could feel something moving nearby, slightly entangled with him. He cracked his eyes open, not quite able to understand how he had survived, and saw Potter staggering upright, spinning around, searching for his wand... Draco inched up onto his elbows, wincing as the pain in his head and chest increased tenfold. Apparently he had pushed himself to his limits. He still had his wand, though - he held it up with a grunt, and Potter, turning, took it urgently and pointed it at the window.

Window. A smashed window, to be precise, which they had apparently just been thrown through. Draco squinted about at the toppled tables and chairs around them, and surmised they were in a Muggle coffee shop. A part-demolished Muggle coffee shop. A sudden barrage of curses came spitting through the gap, and Potter only just managed to block them in time. Draco could do nothing but stay down, shielding his head with one arm from the flying debris around them. When it abruptly stopped, his stomach jerked – Potter was hit. They were dead.

He looked up, and felt a jerk of panic as a figure appeared on the other side of the broken window before he recognised Hestia Jones' sleek ponytail and serious frown. She cocked an eyebrow, looking at he and Potter in turn – Potter who, he realised, was standing beside him unharmed but for a bloody gash on his forehead, his green eyes wide.

"Hestia," he breathed shakily.

Hestia glanced over her shoulder, her wand still raised. "You two alright?"

"Yeah," Potter said.

"What the fuck took you so long?" Draco demanded simultaneously, his voice noticeably weak to his own ears.

Hestia offered him a brief glance in response, speaking instead to Potter. "They sensed us coming – they were Disapparating as we arrived. We're on their tail."

Draco clambered upright, greeted unpleasantly with a strong wave of nausea. His chest burned like it hadn't for days and his head was pounding. He squinted through the pain, tried to move towards the window – his knees shook violently and he felt a hand on his arm.

"Malfoy, you should sit down." Potter's voice. "Your head's bleeding."

"Yeah, so's yours," Draco retorted. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes – he couldn't fucking _see,_ he needed to see. "Where's Hermione?"

Potter seemed to understand. "She's fine, I think – Hestia?"

"She's fine," Hestia confirmed. "On her way over, actually."

The words sounded very distant. The sick feeling hit him again and the world warped around him. He managed to find his footing but the world refused to stop spinning, and with the vertigo came an unsettling, prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He blinked fiercely, tried to push through it, but realised too late that he was fast losing the battle. He concentrated on trying to speak instead.

"Good."

And then darkness swarmed smoothly over his vision. He had no idea that he was plunging towards the ground, but he was aware of the distant sensation of someone catching him halfway down.

 **Hope you enjoyed it. I'll do my best not to leave it too long until the next update.**

 **Take care - reviews are welcome!**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

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 **So... I'm really, really sorry. Never wanted to be one of those people who started off a fic and then abandoned it. It's been a bit of a mad year. But mark my words, I'm finishing this thing if it's the last thing I do! So if you'll forgive me for a) the horribly long wait and b) the alarming change in pace, we'll knock this mother out ;)**

 **Thank you so much for all of the kind reviews, and all of the people who encouraged me to keep writing. Without you guys, this definitely wouldn't have gotten finished. I really appreciate the time you've taken to read my ramblings and the patience you've had in waiting for the ending.**

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 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

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The tiny kitchen of Grimmauld Place was crammed with people barely half an hour after the attack. Despite the ambush injuries had been minor – the Aurors had arrived quickly enough to make the Death Eaters panic and bolt – but the room was tense with the unspoken understanding that this had been too close a shave. Thomas had been caught with an aggressive stupefy and was still shaking off the effects, Luna had sustained a vivid red burn to one cheek and Potter had a large gash on his forehead and a series of scratches from the broken coffee shop window. The whole lot of them looked shaken, aside from Luna who seemed more quietly contemplative as one of the Aurors from the ministry patched up her burns. Those who had been uninjured – George, Ron, Seamus and Pavarti – were grouped around one end of the kitchen table as if in solidarity.

And then there were the Aurors.

The Aurors had descended on the place in alarming speed – five of them in addition to Hestia, followed by six other members of the ministry who set about repairing the coffee shop and the damage to the street. After Draco had come to on the floor of the coffee shop he had been marched back to the house by Hestia, flanked by Hermione and Potter, barely even given time to take in the frenzy of activity around them. Despite his grip on reality being shaken by what he suspected was a pretty nasty concussion and the nausea that had taken hold as soon as he started trying to produce magic, he was able to catch a brief glimpse of bricks flying back into place in walls, a lamppost being uncurled from its crumpled mass on the floor, a small group of muggles who were gazing blankly at a ministry worker, who was telling them in a quiet, calm voice to go home and go about their business as usual. The Aurors flitted across the street, wands drawn, eyes darting frequently to the small group crossing the road to Grimmauld Place. Draco felt their eyes narrow as they focussed on him, and a moment later felt Hermione's small hand slip into his. Despite the solidarity, he knew what the Ministry would be thinking - suspect.

Their group was ushered into the small kitchen of Grimmauld Place - Harry, Hermione, George, Ron, Ginny, Seamus, Luna, Pavarti, and Hestia. People seemed to appear out of nowhere within seconds – McGonagall came spinning out of the fireplace, her face pinched with concern; Mr. Weasley came darting into the room with messy hair and an ashen complexion; four of the Aurors from outside filed in mutely, wands already drawn; even Kingsley Shacklebolt and his right had man appeared. The kitchen was, to say the least, crowded. Draco sat in the chair beside the fire, a seat he had been fervently ushered into and advised to stay in. He didn't like the way the Aurors gathered together on the opposite side of the room, didn't like the way at least one of them was always watching him. Hestia spoke with them for a while in low tones before striding over to him. She had her wand out, and for a moment he was convinced she was about to curse him straight to Azkaban, but instead she leaned over him. Her serious eyes fixed on the bleeding gash her wand was hovering beside, and he was suddenly reminded of the first time he had met her. He almost laughed; he couldn't wait for a month – or even a week – when he could avoid being cursed, jinxed or blown up in one way or another. His head throbbed angrily, chastising him for his most recent scrap, and he was aware of Hermione's eyes repeatedly darting over to him while the others talked quietly. He felt his hands clench anxiously on the arms of the chair, tried to force himself to relax.

"Hold still," Hestia said.

He felt a warm pulse in his head and gritted his teeth. "I am."

"Hold. Still."

He tried to avoid scowling. His ears caught at the conversation taking place on the other side of the room, between Shacklebolt, the Aurors and Potter – Potter who was looking very pale, chewing on his nails, eyes fixed on the kitchen table. He actually looked scared. Something which Draco hadn't seen all that often.

"This is no longer a safehold," Mr. Weasley was saying. "I'm sorry Harry, I know you don't want to hear it-"

"The Death Eaters knew where Grimmauld Place was before, they followed us here once when we were hunting Horcruxes," Ron piped up from the corner. "Why would it suddenly matter now?"

"Because now they feel organised enough to threaten you," McGonagall replied. "Their coming here was not a random attack."

"So, what happens?" Ginny asked, glancing around. "Do we… Is this the start of another war?"

"No," Hestia replied emphatically, straightening up. "It's simply small-scale terrorism. They've shown their hand – the next 72 hours are crucial." She inspected Draco's head for a moment longer. "Alright?"

He knew that she had closed the wound up, but a headache was still splitting his skull. He hadn't stopped shaking since producing the measly amount of magic he had forced during the fight. He didn't trust his voice not to give him away, so he just nodded. He felt like vomiting. He could see from her face that she wasn't fooled, but she turned away from him and moved around the table to stand opposite Harry, her face stern. Hermione, who had been standing just behind her with her arms crossed, instantly stepped forward to stand beside him. Her eyes searched his face, but he looked away.

"They've made their first move, which means they have a plan set in motion," Hestia was saying. "They will have a fall-back strategy."

"What can we do?"

"We've got people tracking them, and we have a team working globally to remain vigilant," Shacklebolt said, his voice as calm and reasonable as ever. "In the meantime, we'll be evacuating this house."

Potter looked up abruptly. "No. This is… No."

"Harry, it's no longer safe here," McGonagall put in.

"This is my home, this is the only home I've…"

Harry trailed off and Ginny reached out to put her hand on his arm. Draco had a sudden memory of Malfoy Manor, of sprinting down the huge staircase as a child, breathless, engaged in some game or other. Potter had never quite had a real home, if he remembered correctly. He had grown up with Muggles who, as Draco understood it, were more than a little averse to the wizarding world. Which meant that Grimmauld Place, being the only house Potter had ever lived in out of choice, must be important to him. The way his face was becoming as hard and impassive as stone would suggest that leaving it did not feel like an option.

"It's not forever," Mr. Weasley said kindly. "The Ministry is close to shutting them down-"

"In what way?" Potter demanded, his voice tight. He looked sharply from Shacklebolt to Hestia. "Since when?"

Shacklebolt frowned. "It's too dangerous to stay here. Better we move you out to a safehouse until this is over."

"And when will that be?"

"As long as it takes."

"What about our Auror training?" Ron put in, half-rising from the table. "We want to fight, we want to be involved–"

"And you will be, but not on the front lines," Mr. Weasley said, his voice suddenly quiet.

The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment. Mr. Weasely's point was all too clear – even Draco felt the absence in the room. Eyes glanced awkwardly at George and then away. George said nothing, his arms folding over his chest, his eyes glittering silently. Ron's face twisted as if he wanted to argue, but eventually he too pressed his lips shut. Ginny spoke up eventually, pulling the conversation away from subjects too raw to be spoken aloud.

"So where? Where are we going?"

Hestia had remained surprisingly quiet during the discussion. Her hands were clasped behind her back, gripping her wand, and her mood was decidedly sullen. Draco got the impression that she had failed in some way, that she was about to be put on trial herself. But now, Shacklebolt looked pointedly at her and her shoulders straightened. She took a small step forward, taking leadership. Her gaze moved slowly across the upturned faces in the room.

"You'll each be transferred to a location outside of London tonight. Luna and Pavarti, you'll go with McGonagall; Dean, Seamus and Neville with Patrick; Ron, George and Ginny with your parents; Harry and Hermione with me. The location of each group will not be shared further than its members."

There was a beat, and Draco felt something in his stomach curl up. The omission of his own name from the list confirmed the fearful voices that had been whispering in the back of his mind. He wished he could excuse himself before the meaning became clear to the rest of the group, but he got the impression that would not be permitted. Hermione broke the pause, her voice small.

"And Draco?"

Hestia shot him a glance, and then immediately looked away again. He knew at once that what she was about to say wasn't good.

"Malfoy is to remain here under surveillance."

"Wait, what?"

"The attack came at the same time as the suspect's return," one of the Aurors said coldly. "We can't rule out the possibility that he was involved."

Draco felt all eyes in the room fix on him. He directed his own gaze down at the floor, his heart drumming fast in his chest. He had, once again, made the mistake of thinking that they had actually started to accept him. His lips twisted into the sneer he was able to hide behind, but Hermione was speaking up furiously.

"What? After all we've… Draco's proven that he's got nothing to do with–"

"He's proved nothing, only used our resources to heal himself."

"The fact he even had the curse in the first place shows–"

"It could have been a way to gain our trust. We can't be certain."

"If he's staying, I'm staying."

Draco swallowed hard. "Hermione."

She looked at him, her brown eyes shimmering dangerously. Her head shook the smallest amount, daring him to silence her, her arms still folded tightly across her chest. She stood there in the way that a sea wall stands against the tide. And despite their earlier argument, he couldn't help but feel a well of fondness for her. She had said she would side with him still, and she was not going back on her word. He tried to pour everything he meant into his gaze, trying to ignore the other people crowded around them. Not the best place for a domestic.

"It's ok."

"No, it's not."

"They're right, you golden kids will be their target," he tried to retain some hint of mockery in his tone, even as his lips quirked unexpectedly. "It would be stupid not to hide."

"So you consider staying here hiding?"

He made the mistake of hesitating and she stabbed a finger at him, the colour rising to her cheeks. As always, she was too quick-witted to be fobbed off with Hestia's placating words.

"Of course you don't! Everyone here knows that the Death Eaters want you dead almost as much as they want us dead."

She turned on her heel, facing up to the Aurors, and to Hestia who was looking stoically at the tabletop.

"You can't just keep him here, completely defenceless, when they have a vendetta against him–"

His pride flared. "Hermione, I'm fine."

"Really?" her voice was shaking. She pointed fiercely at the kitchen sink, beside which the washing up was in its usual pile. "Accio that cup."

Despair and anger turned his skin cold and he looked back at her, his eyes narrowing. The room had turned silent, most people looking puzzled by her request, others understanding. Not everyone knew that he was having trouble with magic. And he most certainly did not want to be exposed like this. Sure, he had been getting better at performing spells and had just about managed to hold his own during the skirmish that day, but it had taken so much out of him. He did not enjoy feeling like a waste of space.

"Malfoy?" Hestia prompted. "Are you unable to perform magic?"

He gritted his teeth. Potter, of all people, suddenly spoke up.

"No, he was fighting just now. Outside…"

He trailed off as Hermione shook her head. "Since the curse, he hasn't been able to cast like he used to. He's getting better, but he won't be able to do anything after this morning."

Her words burned in his ears, and he removed his eyes from hers instantly, seething. She had betrayed his biggest insecurity in front of a room packed with people who hated him. It was incredibly difficult to see the advantages of such a decision. McGonagall cleared her throat, apparently trying to dispel some of the tension.

"Mr. Malfoy, could you please try accio for us?"

So, he had no choice. He sat there for a few moments longer, sullen-faced, trying to think of a way out. But they were waiting, and the longer the silence dragged on, the worse his humiliation would be. So he clenched his jaw, pulled out his wand, and glared at the cup across the room. He still felt dizzy and sick from the last hour of conflict, but his pride wouldn't allow him to admit that he couldn't do it. He tried non-verbally at first, knowing it wouldn't work, and then finally muttered the incantation, his lips stiff.

"Accio."

Heads turned to look at the cup. Apart from Hestia, who he could see watching him from the corner of her eye. His fists clenched reflexively, and he tried to pour everything he had into the spell. Almost at once the pounding in his head leapt to an unbearable level – he let his arm drop, swallowing back a gasp, gripping the bridge of his nose in an attempt to relieve the pressure. His vision was uncomfortably blotchy, and it took a few moments to blink away the dark patches. When he risked glancing up, he saw that the cup had indeed moved – it had tipped onto its side, the dregs of water inside spreading over the counter. The shame in his stomach veered towards rage, and he fixed his eyes on the floor, unable to risk looking at any of them should it explode out of him.

"It's not uncommon in severe magical maladies," McGonagall was saying. "It will, I'm sure, come back with time."

He was still lightheaded, and he hated it. He felt more than heard Hermione moving back over towards him, but refused to look up. She had given him away, forced himself to show that he was weak in front of the others, and he did not want their pity or hers.

"We will need guards here anyway," Hestia said, as if nothing had happened. "For now, one of our Aurors will remain to keep an eye on him. Once we get security over to this place they can both observe and defend him."

"We're not splitting up," Hermione insisted.

"We are."

"Draco–"

"This is not up for discussion," Shacklebolt interrupted, his loud voice cutting decisively through the air. "We stick to the plan. If the Death Eaters have not been subdued in a week's time we'll review."

Hermione's lips closed, her eyes narrowed, and her shoulders grew rigid. Draco almost laughed – it was as if they knew exactly what to say to get her to avoid cooperating at any costs. With any luck, Hestia would be able to keep her and Potter out of trouble. George cleared his throat tentatively.

"What if someone else stays here too? Not one of the, ah, golden trio."

Ron looked over sharply, and Draco almost smiled. George taking up the term was a new development, and one which seemed to irk Ron considerably.

"None of you are suitable to remain behind," one of the Auror's replied wearily. "You all seem to have become, for some reason, acquainted with the suspect. This means we can't trust you not to make the right decision in a crisis."

"Not all of them, actually," Hestia said. She cocked her head. "Ron, you've been training with me for a while. You've shown good progress. What if you remain here with our Auror and Mr. Malfoy as additional security until reinforcements arrive?"

Ron rose at once out of his chair, his eyes widening. Draco almost swore aloud. As if things weren't bad enough, Hestia just had to twist the knife. Mr. Weasley was shaking his head already, but Draco could see the spark in the Weasel's eyes – he couldn't resist the opportunity to finally have the upper hand on him.

"I can assure you that there is, shall we say, limited friendship between these two," Hestia continued, directing her words at the other Aurors. "Perhaps that will satisfy both parties."

There was an uncomfortable silence, and it was quite clear that neither party was all that satisfied. Draco made the mistake of making eye contact with the Weasel, and gritted his teeth against the barely suppressed delight on the other boy's face. Ron was, apparently, quite happy with his new role as prison guard. Shacklebolt offered a short nod.

"Only until reinforcements arrive. At which point, Miss Granger, this building will be quite secure." He gestured to his companion and made his way across the room towards the fireplace. "I expect you all to be thoroughly compliant with any request Hestia makes. She's here, after all, for your safety."

He stopped beside Draco as he took a scoop of Floo powder from the box on the fireplace, and for a moment their eyes met. Draco managed to pull a humourless smirk onto his face in an effort of defiance, but something told him that he didn't quite pull it off. And before he could try again, Shacklebolt had stepped into the fireplace and disappeared with his right hand man in flash of green light. The kitchen became quiet. Hestia lifted her chin defiantly.

"Everyone ready in twenty minutes," she said in a clipped tone. "I suggest you start packing."

Slowly the others began getting up from the table and filed off towards the stairs. Hermione stayed, her arms still resolutely folded. Draco kept his gaze on the fire. He knew that George was trying to catch his eye from across the room, but he didn't want conversation. His head was pounding viciously, and he could feel cold sweat drying on the back of his neck. He found himself wishing they had never left the cottage by the sea. Any interaction with the others only seemed to lead to catastrophe. He noticed that the Auror who had been tasked with watching him had remained where he was and suppressed a groan of frustration.

He huddled himself, resting his elbows on his knees and his forehead against his knuckles. All he wanted to do was retreat back to his old attic room and sleep and smoke cigarettes until it was all over. His whole body ached, not to mention the fact that his pride had been stamped into the ground in front of the whole bloody pack of them. He heard footsteps and groaned under his breath.

"What? You want me to put on another little demonstration for them?"

He sounded too tired to pull off the sarcasm. Hermione crouched in front of him and he felt her hand on his knee, felt her hesitation tremble for a couple of moments before she spoke. He could almost hear her mind buzzing like a beehive, refusing to drop the subject, unable to let an unsolved puzzle lie.

"You can't stay here on your own. We shouldn't split up."

The mixture of frustration at his inability to defend himself and warmth at her steadfast resolve not to leave him behind provoked a short laugh. "We don't have a choice."

"I don't trust them to defend you," Hermione hissed. "And I'm not letting anything happen to you, you're barely back on your feet-"

"Hermione for fuck's sake, I'm not made of glass."

But despite the clipped words, he knew she was right. Splitting up felt like the worst decision in the world right now. After having her within shouting distance for so long, after having her close enough to be a combination of guardian and lover, the idea of her disappearing off to an unknown location left a bad taste in his mouth. Yet, unlike her, he was quicker to accept that the Ministry was not going to change its mind. Heaving out a sigh, he lowered his hands and looked back at her, resolved to place his hand over hers where it rested on his leg. An olive branch.

"We're better off playing their game for now," he said. "They don't need any more reasons not to trust me."

She shook her head, but he could see that she was beginning to admit defeat. She wove her fingers between his, looking immeasurably dejected, and he forced himself to shake off his bad mood. He leaned forward on his chair and pressed a slow kiss against her forehead.

"Go pack," he muttered against her. "Still got your stone?"

She slipped her hand into her pocket, withdrew it with the stone clasped between her fingers for him to see. He nodded.

"Me too. So we'll be fine. I'll check in with you every couple of hours."

She sighed heavily, and then pushed herself up to her feet. He held her serious brown-eyed gaze for a moment longer until she finally relented and turned away towards the stairs. Her feet dragged as she made her way across the kitchen, but she didn't look back at him before she made it to the stairs. He listened to her footsteps grow faint before putting his head back into his hands and letting a breath he didn't know he had been holding rush out of him. He remained like that until she came back down, making a point not to meet the laser-eyed stare of the Auror across the room.

She came down bundled in her coat, her backpack hefted on one shoulder. At her collarbone a glimmer of light reflected, and he realised she had put on the necklace he had given her all that time ago at Hogwarts. The one she used to wear under her shirt, hidden but for the odd occasion her fingertips would lift to brush against it halfway through a class, letting him know in the most subtle way that she had it on. He felt moved by the gesture, and pushed himself up out of the chair to meet her. Everything she did was with purpose – he knew she had put it on as a show of solidarity, as a way of holding onto him from a distance. She shot the watching Auror a glare before she pressed a kiss against his cheek.

"Don't forget," she said softly. "You said you weren't going anywhere. So you better not. And remember – every two hours."

"I'll be right here," he replied. "Promise."

She smiled, but her eyes remained sad and haunted. He shivered slightly as she drew away, unable to shake off the feeling that she knew more than he, that something bad would happen as soon as she set foot out of the door. He heard the thunder of footsteps in the hallway upstairs, and knew that they would be getting ready to go. He heard the hum of voices, listened as they disappeared one by one. As he sat down again in his chair, he was suddenly struck by the realisation that he had no idea how long it would be before he could see her again. His hand snaked automatically into his jacket pocket and closed around the smooth stone which always lay there. Now, more than ever, he was grateful to have a piece of her with him still.

He kept his fingers wrapped around it for so long that he lost track of time, trying to picture where she was, trying to imagine where Hestia would take them. It could be anywhere in the country, from a basement flat in Manchester to a mountain top in Aberdeen. His eyes wandered to the fire blazing in the grate, and the flickering light etched into his eyes. He managed to forget that the Auror was even there until the other man cleared his throat. Upon the reminder, he schooled his features into a scowl and climbed out of the chair, preferring not to sit in awkward silence with a stranger who, no doubt, believed him to be a Death Eater. The Auror straightened up at once, eyes trained on his every move. Draco smirked.

"Am I permitted to go for a cigarette?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Or are you going to tie me down?"

The Auror just looked at him. Draco cast his eyes upwards and pushed himself up out of the chair. He moved gingerly towards the stairs, hating that every movement felt painful.

"You know… that's not a bad idea."

Draco froze. The Auror was the only other person in the room, and yet the voice with which he had spoken was not his own. It was different, slightly distorted, and yet becoming clearer and more recognisable with every second. His hand moved at once to his wand and drew it.

"I mean, I wouldn't want you wandering off. Not when we've only just become reunited."

He wished he could convince himself that he was hallucinating, but that didn't happen to him anymore. Which meant that the voice was real. He forced himself to turn around in time to see the Auror's hair rippling, turning from dark to dirty blonde as he too turned, his features twisting and blurring as if seen from behind warped glass, and then becoming horribly clear. Draco's mouth had turned dry. He tried to disguise the shock that must have shown on his face. The man standing across the room took a step towards him.

"Malfoy."

Draco wet his lips. "Travers."

He found himself reaching for the kitchen counter, his other hand lifting his wand. His wand, which had just been exposed as useless. He thought at once of the stone in his pocket – if he could get a message to Hermione, who could then alert Hestia… Travers pulled his wand from his pocket and pointed it purposefully at Draco's head.

"Put that down and keep your hands where I can see them, eh?" he said in a low, dangerous tone. "Always were a slippery little snake, weren't you?"

Draco kept hold of his wand, wondering if he could somehow bluff his way out of it – if he pretended to cast to make Travers take cover and made a break for the stairs, if he did something… The smirk on Travers' face disappeared and the tip of his wand began to glow warningly.

'"Accio that cup, Draco darling.' Don't be stupid, I was saw the whole show." He cocked his head. "You know, I think it might be difficult to keep you as our hostage if you don't have a face."

His point was all too clear. Loathing every second of it, Draco slowly placed his wand on the kitchen counter and lifted his hands, never breaking eye contact with Travers. His ears strained for any sound of movement upstairs, any indication that the Weasel was coming down. Where the hell was the other boy anyway? Travers lazily Accio'd the wand, pocketed it, and then held out his hand again.

"Come on," he said in response to Draco's raised eyebrow. "How stupid do you think I am?"

Draco said nothing. His heart lurched violently and he could feel sweat prickling on his forehead. He couldn't allow what Travers was asking. Again, the tip of the wand aimed at his head sparked.

"You were going to communicate with her. She had a rock of some kind. Protean Charm, is it? Where's yours?"

Silence shivered in the small kitchen, disturbed intermittently by the crackling fire. Draco considered taking the stone from his pocket and hurling it into the flames, but he knew it wouldn't be destroyed. Travers would simply fish it out again. His mind spun with everything he knew about the charm – as far as he could remember, he didn't think it could be used to track the partner. And he knew better than to test Travers' patience. Slowly, loathing every second of it, he slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the smooth stone. His lifeline. Before he could even hold it out, the stone had flown out of his palm and into Travers' waiting fingers. The Death Eater grinned and settled back against the counter on the other side of the room.

"Don't worry, we won't be long."

Draco swallowed hard. He didn't know if he was more afraid or angry. He stared at the stone as Travers span it between his fingers, watching it grow more tainted with every passing second. His pricked ears caught the click of the front door, heard slow, heavy footfalls on the tiled hallway floor. He wanted to believe it was Hestia or one of the others coming back, but Travers' smirk did nothing to comfort him. He heard the drumming footsteps of someone on the staircase above them. Weasley. It must be. A muffled shout, the rattle of curses bouncing off the corridor walls, a violent bang followed by utter silence. Travers did not move from his spot at the end of the kitchen, and his relaxed composure wore against Draco's nerves like a pestle against grain. He could feel his raised hands trembling, and hated knowing that Travers had probably noticed.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Draco dared to feel hopeful that the Weasel was coming down, that perhaps he had come in useful after all. That is, until Travers smiled and called out.

"Down here."

The kitchen door opened. A lean face appeared out of the darkness, and Draco's stomach lurched unpleasantly. Travers' voice was silky with triumph.

"The other one?"

"Incapacitated," Selwyn replied, moving fully into the room. "The Ministry?"

"Didn't suspect a thing, and they won't find this Auror's body for another two days at least." Travers indicated his Ministry uniform. "Ready?"

Selwyn turned his gaze on Draco. "I hear your magic's been neutered. Funny that."

Draco stared back at him, steadfast. He thought of the complete silence in the hallway and strained his ears for any sign of movement – he wasn't quite ready to face up to the fact that Weasely could well be dead. Although 'incapacitated' did not sound like a final enough sentence for that. Travers finally pushed away from the counter, and the two of them moved in like wolves on their prey.

"Ready to go, Malfoy?" Travers said. "We've called a meeting."

Draco's skin flooded with chills. He didn't have time to think of a sarcastic response – Travers' hand was already closing around his arm. So he did the only thing he could think of – he gripped Travers back, drew back his elbow, and delivered a punch to the Death Eater's face. It was the kind of action that screamed of desperation, a feeling he didn't enjoy much at all, but he knew what would happen if he let them take him. As Travers staggered backwards against the kitchen counter, he felt the heat of a jinx rush close to his face. He whirled around and threw himself at Selwyn with all he had.

He could only hope it would be enough.

~O~

Hermione's fingers drummed against the arms of the chair she was sitting in. The other hand held tight to her Protean Charm stone, waiting for the heat that would indicate a message coming in. She had sent a couple of messages since they arrived at the tiny flat in Brighton, but had so far heard nothing but silence. Hestia had disappeared into another room of the flat shortly after arriving and Hermione could hear the rumble of her speaking – she could only assume the Ministry was in discussion about their plan moving forward. She glanced at her watch, and decided she would give him another half hour to respond before going to knock on the door.

It had been three hours since they had parted.

She tried not to let her mind run. The Protean Charm could have failed – he could have dropped it or lost it, or fallen asleep – anything could explain away his lack of response. The only reason she wasn't panicking yet was because they were with Hestia, and Hestia would be able to confirm what was going on. She had to know if security had arrived at Grimmauld Place yet, and would have raised the alarm if something was wrong. Still, Hermione couldn't relax until she was sure. She watched Harry, who was sitting on the other side of the tiny kitchen table, staring grimly at the floor, his hands clasped in front of him. He had not been invited to whatever meeting Hestia was having – a fact that seemed unusual, but which Hermione couldn't bring herself to focus on with everything else that was happening. He hadn't argued much, perhaps preferring to sit with her in silence, waiting for answers to be delivered up to them out of the darkness.

The place was small, the kitchen in particular so tiny that she could almost touch each opposite wall by reaching out her arms. The cabinets jutted out of the walls at awkward points, and the fridge seemed to take up a whole quarter of the area. The cramped conditions did nothing to comfort her trembling nerves. It seemed a strange place for a safehouse. The Ministry could surely enhance spaces with magic, or at least maintain some of the mould that seemed to be growing in on corner of the ceiling. She looked down at the stone, wondering for the hundredth time if she had missed a message come in, but it was still empty of comfort. She sent another, chewing on her lip as she did so.

Is security there yet?

She felt as if she were speaking the words into a black hole. Her eyes travelled again over the cupboard doors, across the grimy sink.

"Hermione?"

She glanced up. Harry's eyes were on her, his face sombre. He had been slouched in his chair like a deflated balloon since the moment they had arrived. He glanced at the door to the corridor, which stood ajar, before continuing.

"What do you think are the chances of them finding the Death Eaters within the next couple of days?"

She shrugged. "They've been clever enough not to be caught so far. If they have any sense they will have gone straight back underground, and they won't come out until the Aurors lose the scent."

"You don't think they can be tracked?"

"Do you?"

Harry grimaced. "I don't understand what Hestia thinks they can track. They have the traces from the Apparate charms but those will be gone by now. And if they could follow those, we would have heard news already."

"Hmm."

He sighed. "You ok?"

She met his gaze. He looked like she felt. His brow was permanently furrowed with concern, his hands wringing uncertainly together, his lips tightening. He had not yet taken off his coat, and she knew that he didn't want to accept that he had been evicted from the first real home he had. Maybe he thought that they might still go back that very night. She shrugged again, unable to hide her twitching nerves.

"I asked Draco to check in with me. He hasn't yet."

"I seem to remember him holding grudges," Harry replied, managing a small smile. "Maybe he's pissed."

"Don't think so."

"Maybe he's asleep?"

He was voicing all of the thoughts that had been running circles in her head, and doing nothing to calm her. She just shrugged. She searched for some way to shift their conversation away from her fretting, and was handed an opportunity by the sombre expression on his face.

"Are you alright?" she said. "I'm sure we'll be back at Grimmauld Place before long. This chase can't go on forever."

Harry grimaced. "It's dragged on for so much longer than I thought it would. If you told me at the Battle that I'd still be worried about Death Eaters after so many months, I would've told you to get lost."

"The Ministry will find them."

Her words sounded empty to her own ears. She was sick of hearing it too. The exhilaration in the aftermath of the battle had made her feel like they could do anything, that they could close the chapter of their lives when they had to be afraid all the time. And yet still they couldn't shake off the residual effects Voldemort had burned into each of them. She could imagine that the frustration was somewhat more tangible for Harry, who at that moment looked up at her with an earnest expression on his face.

"When do you think this is going to be over?" Once again, he was reading her mind. "When are we going to be able to talk about this in the past tense?"

"I don't know Harry," she said honestly. "Maybe it's never over. Maybe it just depends how far away from it you get."

His face fell in the most microscopic way, and she instantly regretted her words. She had wanted to be reassuring, but he current mood was doing nothing to help bring optimism to the conversation. She opened her mouth to try to fix it, but even as she began to speak the stone in her hand grew warm and she lurched upright in her seat, her heart leaping with a thrill of surprise and relief. She heard Harry huff out a small laugh at her reaction.

"There you go. Told you he'd get back in touch."

She stared at the stone, reading the words again and again, trying to make them form sense in her head. The pause stretched longer, and Harry cleared his throat.

"Hermione?"

She lifted up the stone for him to read the words that were chasing across its surface.

Hestia is traitor. Meet at Knockturn.

She watched his eyes read and re-read the message. He looked up at her, clearly shaken, words trembling on the brink of his tongue. She put a finger to her lips and snatched up her wand. Within seconds the door to the corridor had closed and a silencing charm was settling over them to mask their words from any listening ears. She was reminded vividly of their days in the forest, and almost at once felt adrenaline begin to pulse in her fingertips. Harry sat upright in his seat.

"Is that from Draco?"

She nodded.

"Why would he say that?"

Her mind was racing. She had so many questions, and yet the message left no room for any of them. And yet, wouldn't it make sense? The more she thought about it, the more the statement answered some gaps in their strategy that had been steadily widening over the last month. Hestia was the most informed of their behaviour, it had been her idea to split up, she had been in charge of locating the remaining Death Eaters… Had Draco taken so long to reply because something had happened after they had left? Had Hestia known something would happen, and therefore arranged for him to be left at Grimmauld Place alone, for them to be separated, and then hidden herself away to avoid any questions she or Harry might have?

"It's impossible," Harry said, whispering despite her charm. "How could–"

"Nothing's impossible," she replied, her voice hard. "Peter Pettigrew lived as a rat for fifteen years. Lucius Malfoy worked at the Ministry for Magic."

"But… Hestia?"

"Harry." She found herself looking furtively at the door to the hallway. "What if Hestia hasn't found the Death Eaters yet because she's not really looking for them? How can it taken a whole division of Aurors in the Ministry so long to find a tiny group of Voldemort's idolisers?"

"But why would she–"

"She's brought us here alone. None of the others know where we are."

Harry stared at her, his eyes wide and glassy. He glanced over his shoulder, and she knew that just like her, he was beginning to feel a thrill of terror in his bones. His tongue darted across his lips.

"Hermione… I know you don't want to hear this, but is there any chance that–"

"What?"

Her voice was low and cold – she knew what he was about to ask. And she was so exhausted of hearing that question. Harry clocked her tone but only hesitated before pushing on, keeping eye contact with her.

"Is there any chance that Draco has been playing us somehow?"

Despite the frustration and anger that boiled up in her, she made an effort to consider his perspective. She tried to question Draco's loyalty. But she could see him diving out of the air to pull her from a freezing lake, she could see him standing between her and Bellatrix at Malfoy Manor, she could see him reaching for her when he wasn't even fully conscious, and she knew. She tried to keep her voice cordial when she replied.

"It's not even a question. And, after five years, I think I know him better than you know Hestia."

Harry had the decency to look guilty. But he was still undecided, still unsure.

"But what about Ron, why would he go along with something like this? And why Knockturn Alley? That's the last place–"

"Maybe he doesn't know either. And Knockturn Alley is out of sight of the Ministry, isn't it? And if Hestia is a traitor…"

Harry shook his head. "This is too… We can't just…"

She trained her eyes on the table, blocking out his halting words. Despite her certainty that Draco wouldn't lie to her, she understood Harry's hesitation. Knockturn Alley, in particular, stood out as strange. She and Draco had a hundred secret places the two of them knew – why would he choose a potentially dangerous place? And it didn't seem possible that Hestia could be a double agent, not when the Ministry was run by Shacklebolt and the rest of the Order… although the length of time their guardian had spent locked away in her room was beginning to make Hermione's skin prickle. She didn't like that they were isolated. She didn't like not knowing, not having control of the situation. She had felt safer out in the woods in a tent, on the run from the whole world, than she felt now.

She stood abruptly, snatching up her scarf and coat. Harry scrambled to his feet too, reaching across the table to grab her arm.

"Hermione, wait – we're not just rushing over there. We can't."

"I'm not staying here," she hissed back, pulling free and dragging her coat on. "I'm going to Grimmauld Place."

"Why?"

"Because if Draco and Ron are there, the message is fake. And if they aren't–"

"It could still be fake!"

"But then we'll know one way or another if they're alright."

Harry's face twisted. She could see the tug of war going on in his own mind, and knew that he didn't want to be left behind sitting in a dingy kitchen any more than she did. After being the centre of the action for so long, sitting on the side-lines didn't suit either of them. He glanced over his shoulder at the hallway door again.

"And then what? We don't have a plan here, we're making ourselves vulnerable."

"Harry, Draco should have contacted me an hour ago!" she snapped. "I don't care about a plan. Something feels wrong, and I know you think so too. I'm going back there."

"Hermione, we should wait for Hestia–"

"Why? So she can figure out what we know?"

"Fine, fine! Then I'm coming with you."

She caught her breath, filled with relief she didn't know she had been waiting for. Because even though she would have gone alone, she really, really didn't want to. A brief memory flashed through her mind – a massive, three-headed dog looming out of the darkness towards them, a hand which had been much smaller then grasping for her sleeve. She almost felt her chest grow tight at the thought. Somehow, no matter how bad things got, they were able to stay beside one another. A thought that made the fact that Ron was not with them suddenly wrong, and filled her with renewed determination.

Harry looked down at his bag, but then seemed to decide against bringing it and simply held out his hand. She took it, and they both removed their wands from their pockets.

"Ready?" he said.

She nodded. Together they rolled through the familiar squeezing darkness until Grimmauld Place appeared before them. For a moment, she saw the lights on in the upstairs windows and allowed herself to believe that it had all been some kind of mistake, that the house was untouched. But then her gaze moved lower, and her stomach dropped. She crossed the street almost without looking for cars, Harry hot on her heels.

"Slow down, Hermione–"

"Harry, the door."

"What?"

"The door."

Her voice was tight with panic and her shoulders were beginning to shake with terror. She flew up the stairs to the front door, which was hanging ajar. She shot a quick glance back at Harry, who had fallen silent. She lifted her wand and listened for a moment, but the house seemed quiet. Slowly, she inched the door open.

The hallway beyond had been wrecked. The walls were scorched with blasts from curses, and the mirror that usually stood on the wall had shattered. Hermione's eyes darted across the scene, all too aware of the sharp intake of breath she had heard behind her. She made for the stairs, her heart in her throat. Harry seemed to find his voice again.

"Hermione, careful–"

"Check this floor and the kitchen. Now."

She knew she should be checking more carefully, but there was no time. She flew from room to room, knowing more with every door she kicked open that she was going to find nothing. She reached the attic room last, and forced herself to breathe deeply before pushing the door open. For a moment she was convinced she would see a body, but the room was quiet and empty. The bed was made. The surfaces were spotless. No one had been in there. The house was as silent and empty as a tomb.

She heard Harry calling for her and made her way numbly down the stairs, her legs tripping over one another as she went. She could hear her own blood in her ears, roaring like static from a broken television. Harry was on the first floor landing, his eyes wide with panic. His white-knuckled hands gripped the banister of the staircase.

"There's no one downstairs."

She shook her head. "They're gone."

There was an anxious pause. She knew that they were both thinking of the message from the stone, and of the sender. She heard Harry take a deep breath.

"Ok. So, first scenario – the Death Eaters came, Malfoy and Ron fought back and escaped. And they messaged us to meet them at Knockturn Alley. Second scenario…"

"What second scenario?" she demanded as his voice trailed off. "Harry, the hallway is a mess. Where's the Ministry? Where's the security team Hestia was supposed to call in?"

Harry opened his mouth and then closed it again. Hermione snatched at the banister. Her palms were sweating and her skin was prickling with sheer panic. Her mind wouldn't accept what she was being faced with. That she had been so sure that something would go wrong, and then let everyone convince her to go along with the plan anyway. That she had left him alone in the state he was in. But the message on the stone meant that he must be alive, must be alright… She looked up at Harry.

"I'm going to Knockturn Alley. I have to."

Harry's face was very pale. His eyes travelled down the stairs, towards the chaos in the entrance hall, tracing the shards of glass on the floor. She suddenly realised that the first time Death Eaters had broken into a home belonging to him, his parents had been killed. And now, his best friend was missing. She took a step towards him, opening her mouth to offer comfort, but he suddenly turned back towards her. His voice was unwavering when he spoke.

"Let's go."

He took her hand and 12 Grimmauld Place melted into nothingness around them.

The sight of Knockturn Alley that took its place was as dark and cold as she remembered. A thick fog had rolled in over London since their quidditch game that afternoon, and the lights from the streetlamps and shops were little more than smudges of orange in the haze. The damp mist clung to her hair and skin, her ears caught at the sound of water drizzling somewhere nearby. The air had that heavy, expectant quality which suggested imminent rain. She turned up the collar of her coat against it, and glanced at Harry. His green eyes were shining nervously back at her in the dark, his skin waxy bright against his hair. Despite her resolution to plunge into the unknown, to demand the truth, actually seeing Knockturn Alley materialize around them brought more uncertainty to her mind than she cared to admit.

"Where should we go?"

She remained still and quiet. She was beginning to regret her decision to go there, alone, defenceless – even more so for bringing Harry too. She felt like the two of them were standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down at a roaring ocean, a pack of wolves howling somewhere in the darkness behind them. They were in limbo – until they could confirm things one way or another, they would not know who to trust, or what their next move could be.

"We have to wait for a sign," she replied eventually.

She led the way forward, and Harry followed close behind her. Her eyes flicked to and fro, seeking out shadowy figures in the darkness, but she could see no one. It wasn't the sort of night to be out in. The shop windows were dark, the signs in the windows flipped to 'closed'. Up ahead was Borgin and Burkes, a shop she remembered from their brief previous visit to the area, and she made for it automatically. Between its large, dull window and the opening of an alleyway was a corner, just big enough for the two of them to slip into, out of sight of prying eyes. She pressed herself back against the cold bricks, Harry following suit. He spoke up once more, keeping his voice to a whisper.

"Maybe you should reply to his message?"

She nodded and reached into her pocket for the stone with shaking hands. She hesitated as she crafted the message to send back, rewording it a couple of times in her head. She wasn't sure why, but something felt wrong. Perhaps it was simply being in Knockturn Alley, but she felt somehow that the whole situation was slightly off key. As if she had come home one day and found everything she owned replaced with an exact replica. She thumbed the stone worriedly, but eventually sent through a brief response – Here. She returned the stone to her pocket. Either way, there was no going back now.

"We've been out of the safehouse for about fifteen minutes," she said softly. "Hestia must have had an alarm set up for people Apparating in and out. She might have already realised we're missing."

Harry's eyebrow quirked. "We should contact Arthur. Or George. What if they're in trouble too?"

She fastened her teeth over her bottom lip. In her rush to make sure Draco was safe, she hadn't stopped to think about the fate of the others. If Hestia was a traitor in some way, it was entirely possible that some of the other Aurors were too – how could they be sure that the others hadn't met a similar fate as Draco and Ron after being transported to their various locations? It was not a particularly encouraging thought, and she could tell by the sheen in Harry's eyes that he was feeling the same sense of creeping despair. And yet, as she tried to pull herself together and muster a plan, a shock of white blond hair appeared at the end of the alleyway to their left, and she felt her heart stop in her chest.

She lurched forward before Harry could grab for her, stepping into the light of the lamppost at the mouth of the alleyway. She didn't have to speak – the figure ahead of her cocked his head towards the fork at the other end of the passage and then promptly disappeared around the corner. She flew into action. She heard the smack of Harry's trainers against the stone floor as he hurried after her, heard his breathless voice in her ear.

"Hermione, be careful!"

She lifted her wand in a wordless response. She strode to the end of the alleyway, rounded the corner – and found herself face to face with clear, blue-grey eyes. His lips quirked and his teeth appeared between them for a fraction of a second.

"You got my message?"

A sob forced itself into her throat and she threw herself at him, unable to believe he was real until her arms closed around his shoulders. His hands lifted to her back as she clung on, desperately trying to keep her emotions in check.

"Draco… Draco, god, I was so…"

His body was slightly stiff under her arms, and she slowly drew back, looking him again in the face. He held her glance briefly, a thin grimace chasing across his face, and then his eyes moved towards Harry. She let go, sensing a reluctance in him, trying to figure out what it was. Was he angry that she had left him alone at Grimmauld Place? Had he been hurt somehow? But his disposition was not particularly sour – he even smiled as he pushed his hands into his pockets, casting a look around the deserted alleyway.

"Did you come alone?"

She fumbled for words. "Yes, we didn't–"

"What the hell's going on, Malfoy?" Harry broke in, apparently unable to hold back any longer. "Where's Ron? What's all this about Hestia?"

Draco jerked his head absently. "Death Eaters ambushed Grimmauld Place. Ron and I fought them off, but we had to make a run for it."

"But how is Hestia involved?"

His eyes shifted towards the end of the alleyway. "We can't talk freely here. Come on."

He turned away and headed towards a pile of bins in the corner. Her eyes travelled to the hem of his coat, which hung down almost to his knees. She was sure he hadn't been wearing it when they had last seen each other. The obvious answer would have been that he had grabbed it from Grimmauld Place before escaping. She watched as he reached the bins and clawed through the top pile of rubbish inside, pulling out a tin cup. He returned, holding it up.

"A portkey?" she said, raising one eyebrow. "Where does it lead?"

"Not here."

"Obviously," Harry snapped.

She felt a ripple of cool air pass over her – Harry had muttered a _silencio_. He had been hovering behind her shoulder, but now he moved up to stand in line with her, his eyes narrowed behind his wire-rimmed glasses. Draco looked back at him, eyebrows arched, an almost bemused expression on his face.

"Problem?"

"You're fucking right there's a problem." Harry was practically spitting through his teeth. "You don't just… just call us here, telling us that Hestia's a traitor, and then expect us to follow you wherever you say. My house is in pieces, my best friend is missing – I'm not going anywhere until you explain what happened."

"We don't have time for–"

"Where. Is. Ron."

Hermione stood silent, watching Draco's face. It had hardly changed throughout the whole conversation. Ordinarily he would start rolling his eyes, or plaster on a sneer as soon as his decisions were challenged. He looked perfectly normal – even the cut on his head from that afternoon was there – but something felt different. She couldn't explain it, even to herself, but the hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end. Draco's ice blue eyes, eyes she had woken up to every day for the past month, slid towards her.

"Ron's not here," he said. "He was injured in the fight."

Harry's frustration deflated at once. He looked at her quickly, clearly shaken, but she kept her eyes on Draco. She was waiting for him to push his hair back out of his face, as he always did when he was uncomfortable. She noted that she had not had the same reaction Harry had experienced to the news of Ron, and added that to the growing list of inconsistencies.

"What happened?" Harry said haltingly, the aggression leaking out of his voice. "Is he ok?"

"That's why it was urgent," Draco replied coolly. "That's why he's not here now. And we have proof that Hestia was involved in the attack, but it's not safe to discuss it here."

He glanced down pointedly at the tin cup in his hand. After a moments longer hesitation, Harry stepped forward to stand beside him, looking awkwardly back at Hermione as he went. She didn't move. She watched Draco watch Harry, watched the odd glint in his eyes. She had never seen that expression on his face before. She felt her hand clench unconsciously around her wand.

"Draco?"

He looked back at her, his brow furrowing in irritation. She lifted her hand to her necklace, watched his eyes flick down to it and back to her gaze, indifferent.

"Yes?"

Her heart shuddered to a stop. She did her best to try to stop her feelings from registering on her face. She had to hide her suspicions for a moment longer, until she could be sure.

"Remember? From my birthday?"

His face flexed into a carefully formed smile. "Yeah, of course. We should go now, come on. We shouldn't waste time."

She felt her hands grow cold. As he looked back down at the portkey, she lifted her wand and aimed.

" _Impedimentia_."

The light of the jinx that erupted from her wand illuminated the shock on both Harry and Draco's face before it hit. Harry darted away as Draco, who had seconds before been standing calmly beside him, flew backwards and hit the alleyway wall. Harry was still struggling to pull his words together as Hermione strode forward. Her spell had incapacitated him, but not disarmed him – she saw his wand still clutched in his hand and flicked her wand again. The wand sailed into the air and landed in Harry's fumbling hands as he spoke up.

"Mione… What're you…"

"Who are you?" she ground out, not removing her stare from the man pinned against the wall.

"What're you talking about?" he muttered, teeth gritted into an uncomfortable smile. "I'm–"

"Don't you dare." She glanced briefly at Harry. "Draco gave me this as a Christmas present. It was the first time… first present he gave me. He wouldn't forget something like that."

She managed to cover her first explanation, which would have conveyed a little too much about how special that particular necklace was. Harry's eyes widened in understanding and he lifted his own wand.

"You're sure?" he said softly.

"Positive." She glared at the man against the wall. "You know what, I don't need you to tell me who you are. You're a Death Eater."

The man said nothing. She felt something in her stomach begin to burn, felt her breath grow tight in her chest. She couldn't tell if Harry was speaking or not. If he was, her words trampled over his in a stampede.

"You took him. And Ron."

Still, he said nothing, but the gleam in his eyes told her she was right. She wet her lips.

"They're alive?"

The man who was wearing Draco's face twisted his mouth into a sneer. Hermione felt terror beating in her chest and pressed her wand forward, knowing that hot sparks were beginning to fly from the end, her heart thundering.

"Answer me. Answer me!"

"Don't you get it?" he replied. "It doesn't matter. They're either dead or about to be." He paused, letting his gaze rove slowly over her. "Filthy, stupid Mudblood."

Hearing that word in Draco's voice seemed to hollow her out. Her arm lost its strength and she turned away blindly, let her feet carry her to the other side of the alleyway. Harry caught at her, one eye still trained on the immobilised Death Eater.

"Hermione, he's just trying to get to you."

"It's true, isn't it?"

It all seemed to rush in on her at once, and she reached for the damp brick wall as she sank down onto her knees. She felt as if she had been suddenly cut off from reality, severed from it all, and was now simply watching everything unfold from a distant television screen. Her frizzy hair was clinging to her face from the mist and the rain, straggling around her, hiding the outside world. She couldn't accept it, couldn't let herself comprehend what was happening. Couldn't bear to imagine him trying to fight them off as they poured into Grimmauld Place. She had known it would happen, she had known in the pit of her stomach that she should not leave him there in that house, and she had done it anyway. And all her racing mind could think of now was whether the Death Eaters would have enough reason to keep him alive, or whether he was already dead, whether they would have been too eager to get their revenge… she felt sick.

I'll be right here. Promise.

A hand was on her shoulder, and she blinked until Harry's face came into focus in front of her. Rain had peppered the surface of his glasses – his eyes were blurred behind them.

"We need to get help. Right now."

"How?" Hermione mumbled. "They're already gone. There's nothing…"

"Hermione, come on." Harry's grip on her shoulder tightened. "Don't do this. We have to think. That's what you do, remember?"

"But what if…"

Her voice trailed off.

"We're getting Hestia," Harry pressed. "She'll know what to do. And then we're going to make a plan. We'll get them back, Hermione."

She just shook her head. The puddles on the floor were soaking through her jeans. She leaned her forehead against the cold brick wall.

"We still don't know if we can trust Hestia."

"But the message was a fake–"

"But we still don't know how they got into Grimmauld Place, how they knew Draco and Ron would be alone. We're on our own, Harry."

Uttering those words seemed to bring something back into her. After all, there was no one coming to help them. She swallowed hard, pushed her hair back out of her face. She reached for the wall and pulled herself upwards. Her legs shook but she forced herself to hold onto the brickwork until she was steady again. She realised that Harry was still holding onto her arm. She looked at him. He was worried about her, she could see it in his pale, tight face. She turned away from him. The man who was not Draco was watching them in silence, that alien smile still lingering on his face. It filled her with contempt and she strode back to face him, lifting her chin defiantly.

"Where are they?"

"Fuck off, Mudblood."

Her eyes narrowed.

"That's not good enough." She lifted her wand. " _Imperi_ –"

"Hermione!"

Harry caught at her wrist and she broke off, her heart beating fast and hard in her throat. He was staring at her, shaking his head fiercely.

"Hermione, that's not… that's an Unforgiveable Curse. You can't sink to their level – the Ministry will–"

"They can do what they want," she snapped. She felt wild, as if electricity was coursing through her veins. "We need to know. I'm not giving up."

"This isn't you, Hermione."

"I think there are some fights that even I can't win with books. Unless you have a better idea?"

She shook him off and lifted her wand again, and this time he didn't stop her. Her hand was shaking as she opened her mouth to repeat the incantation. Before she could begin, a steely voice cut through the mist behind them.

"If I were you, I would put that wand down. Now."

The chill of the rain was eating into her flesh. Hermione held fast to her wand, her breath frozen in her lungs. It seemed their time in limbo on the cliff edge was coming to an end. There was only one choice left – the wolves or the ocean.

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 **This felt a little bit out of character, but we all know Hermione is a BAMF when it counts.**

 **I'd say that reviews are welcome, but after the long wait I probably don't deserve them... still, if anyone is still reading, I hope it didn't disappoint.**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

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 **Thank you for the reviews! It's nice to know people are still out there despite the long hiatus. I think this fic has one more chapter left after this - we've almost made it! Thanks for all the encouragement and kind words... let's get on with it!**

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 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

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They had cast _Obliscero_ as soon as they had taken him from Grimmauld Place, and then Apparated several times. Presumably to confuse any Aurors attempting to track them down. And so Draco sat in the chair he had been bound to, wandless, blind and feeling more than a little desolate. His poor effort to escape had, of course, failed, mainly due to the fact that they had wands and he did not. Sitting on the beach outside Shell Cottage, clutching his father's watermarked suicide note, felt like years ago. And yet in his mind's eye he could see the grey waves heaving and crashing in tumultuous blasts on the pebbled shore and feel the hard lump in his throat.

 _So then – we both had secrets._

The words felt inanely petty now. Particularly as the longer he sat there in the chair in utter darkness, the longer they had to get to her. If they had infiltrated Grimmauld Place, there was nothing to stop them from getting further.

For all he knew, she was dead already.

His fathers face had been a recurrent sight in the back of his head that day, and now it resurfaced once again. When sitting on the beach, he had been struck by the cold truth that he now had no family left at all. There would never be a chance at reconciliation with his father, nor a laying to rest of the blame they tossed back and forth for his mother's death. The knowledge had left him feeling much like the last stage of a Russian doll which had abruptly been separated from its larger, encompassing counterparts. And yet, now, he could be joining them both sooner than expected. He didn't bother attempting to guess the details of the Death Eaters' plan. He was certain that, whatever it was, it would involve a swift and violent punishment for his treachery.

He pulled half-heartedly at the ropes that were pinning his arms to the chair. He had been attempting to use non-verbal magic, but so far it had yielded no results. The scuffle outside Grimmauld Place earlier had taken too much energy out of him. He resorted to moving his wrists methodically back and forth, the ropes burning his skin, the chair creaking softly now and then. He wasn't stupid enough to believe it would lead to an escape, but sitting in silence patiently waiting for his executioner was not a particularly attractive idea either.

A sudden gasp followed by a yelp from somewhere very nearby made him freeze instinctively, his blood buzzing with adrenaline. The silence had been absolute – he'd had no idea that he might have company in whatever prison he was being kept in. He listened, attempting to decipher if the voice was friend or foe, and then with a sinking realisation recognized the muttered curses coming from his right. He wet his lips.

"Weasel?"

The other person made a strange noise that suggested they had also not realised that they had company. After a beat, the voice spoke up.

"Malfoy?"

Draco found it in himself to be grateful for the blindness, which presumably meant that the other boy could not see the look of exasperation that was currently etched into his face. Of course he couldn't have been abducted with Hermione, or George, or even Potter. It had to be Weasel. He forced himself to answer.

"Yeah."

"Where are you? I can't fucking _see_ …"

"Obviously they didn't want us to know where we are," Draco muttered. "Great bodyguarding, by the way."

Weasley made a small noise of irritation, accompanied by a series of high-pitched creaks that suggested he was also tied to a chair.

"I wasn't expecting them to–"

"As if you're supposed to expect Death Eaters to show up at the front door!"

His only answer was a frustrated groan. Draco closed his eyes – which felt incredibly stupid, but did help him concentrate – and tried to focus on drawing on any non-verbal magic he could find. Despite the sour company, he couldn't deny that having someone else in the room made it harder for him to simply give up. But before he could even begin, Weasel's voice broke the tense silence.

"What happened to the Auror?"

Draco resisted the urge to snap at him. "It wasn't an Auror. Polyjuice."

"But how could that–"

"I don't _know_ Weasel, just shut up and let me think."

He had been thinking for however long they had been there with no luck. Without magic, he was very unlikely to get free of the ropes. He felt like they might have shifted a couple of times due to his near-constant pulling, but it was nowhere near enough for him to pull free. And even if he did, he was still blind, and unable to break the charm. Weasel spoke up again, his voice a little quieter this time.

"Where are we?"

"No idea," he ground out. "Stop panicking."

"I'm not."

Draco began trying to focus again, but the sound of Weasley struggling and grunting somewhere to his right was suitably distracting that his efforts were fruitless. He sighed and tried to make himself run through their situation again, tried to formulate some kind of escape. At least he now had an accomplice, even if it wasn't his first choice of companion.

"What happened at the house?" he said. "Did they hurt you?"

"Just caught me off guard," Weasel muttered. "Must've _stupefied_ me or something."

"So you're fine? You could cast spells if you had a wand?"

"Sure." His voice sounded almost hopeful. "You have one?"

"Of course not." Draco wet his lips. "Listen, Weasel – my guess is that they're going to keep you alive as some kind of bargaining chip. So just don't aggravate them, and you'll be fine."

"Yeah, great." Weasel's shaking voice couldn't quite pull off the sarcasm he was going for. "What about you?"

Draco could feel his palms sweating. He gripped the arms of his chair and tried to come up with something to say that did not sound as bleak as he felt. He was rescued from doing so by the sound of a door opening and a loud voice piercing the silence, neither of which made him feel much better about the situation. A charm was mumbled and Draco's sight returned abruptly, making him squint against the light he had grown unaccustomed to. He immediately saw Travers and felt his stomach jerk. He turned his attention elsewhere, focusing instead on the room they were in. It looked disturbingly like the back room of a butcher's shop – a large, iron door, no windows, dirty tiled walls and floor. As expected, he discovered Weasley tied to a chair to his right. He was blinking hard, a little ruffled but relatively unhurt, excluding a darkening bruise on his forehead.

"Evening," Travers said with a crooked smile. "Welcome back."

Draco said nothing, choosing instead to fix his gaze on the floor.

"What? Not happy to see me?"

"What do you want? The Ministry's looking for you, you know."

Draco resisted the urge to tell Weasel, once again, to shut up. Travers, however, only glanced over at him indifferently.

"The Ministry? How terrifying."

Footsteps in the corridor. Travers was not, it seemed, visiting them alone. The footfalls echoed against the tiled walls, paused just outside the door, and then a square, pale face came into sight. Rounded shoulders. Slightly shaggy, dark hair, longer now than Draco remembered. He could do nothing but stare, completely and utterly shocked, as the other boy stepped into the room, cloak arranged carefully around him like a nesting vulture.

"Travers, wait outside?"

Travers grinned widely, making sure to catch Draco's gaze before departing. Draco knew the drill – he would wait just outside the doorway, ears pricked for movement or disturbances. Draco had filled such a role countless times himself. But this time, he was the one in the interrogation chair. And the question master…

"Malfoy," Theodore Nott said, his head jerking slightly. "Been a while."

Draco's eyes were glued to the other boy's face. He was instantly familiar, and yet looked completely different to the boy he had known during the war. His skin was greyer, his eyes twin pebbles in his skull, his mouth firmly downturned. He looked years and years older. It took Draco a while to realise that Nott was waiting for him to speak, and he had to clear his throat slightly before venturing to.

"Of all people I could see right now," he said, speaking quietly in the vain attempt of keeping Travers from hearing, "You were the last person I would've pegged."

"I could say the same," Nott replied coldly. "Were you always working for them?"

Draco let a beat pass, trying to phrase his words carefully. He could detect an undertone to Nott's voice – almost as if he were affronted, wounded somehow. It seemed that their conversation might not follow the usual blueprint for a Death Eater interrogation. He tried to relax his grip on the chair. Without Travers in the room, he risked shooting another sidelong glance at the Weasel. He could try changing his approach – he reached for his non-verbal magic, aiming for the ropes on the other chair instead of his own in the hope that the new target might be more successful than the first.

"I wasn't," he said, returning his gaze to Nott and keeping his voice level. "It wasn't that clear cut."

"Because of the Mudblood?"

 _Fuck._ He would have been foolish to let himself believe that they still didn't know, but Nott's words still sent a thrill of panic through him. Her face seared in his brain. For all he knew, they could be about to bring her through the door. His eyes even flicked to it nervously, but the doorway remained vacant. He tried to keep his attention on the ropes.

"Were you helping them throughout the war?" Nott pressed. "Feeding them information?"

"No."

"Did you help them escape when they were imprisoned at the Manor?"

Draco opened his mouth, and then shut it again. He didn't need to answer or try to lie – he could see the vicious understanding in Nott's face. They probably already knew everything. If they had infiltrated the Ministry, they would have been able to access all of Hestia's notes. His secrets were well and truly out.

"So, you could say that your actions directly led to our loss at the Battle of Hogwarts."

Draco grimaced. "Doesn't really matter how you say it. I'm guessing there's only one end to this conversation."

Nott's face creased, and Draco could see him fighting words back from his tongue. He wasn't going to win – Nott was famous for handling situations poorly. He'd always had little control over his actions and words. Draco had a sudden vision of him running full pelt after the Auror in the forest, a flash of green light, and felt as if his heart had been squeezed into a fist. He had killed Ursula Tavistock to save the life of the man who now had him tied to a chair. The hideous reality of it was too much to face – he drove the images out of his mind.

"I don't understand," Nott said, and his voice finally sounded familiar, more like that uncertain boy who had hovered close to Draco's side on a broomstick above Privet Drive, the boy who he had shared a bottle of firewhiskey with at the Quidditch World Cup. "How did this even happen? You lived for the cause, we all did –"

"Cause, what cause?" Draco hissed. "To live in constant fear in my own house? To sleep just upstairs from a snake that nearly tore my throat out?"

"You never believed in it?"

Nott's voice was very low. He was watching Draco with wide, incredulous eyes and his mouth was quirking violently. Draco could only stare back at him, unable to comprehend that he had got it so wrong, that he could have misunderstood so much. He tried to find a way to explain in terms that Nott would understand.

"We didn't know what we were buying into," he said at last. "We were just kids. But you know what you're buying into now, Nott. The cause is dead."

"Not while we're still here," Nott pressed. His face was twisting, his eyes lit with an almost hysterical fire. "Don't you get it? This is our chance – we won't be at the bottom of the heap anymore. We'll be His favourites, and then when the next war comes we'll rule everything-"

"Do you _hear_ yourself?" Draco wanted nothing more than to shake the other boy, to scream into his face. "Nott, the Dark Lord is dead. There is no 'next war,' there never will be. It's _over_. All you can do now is make the best of the aftermath."

Nott watched him for a moment. His tongue skated briefly across his bottom lip.

"It's over for you," he said eventually, as if deciding on something.

He stepped aside. Travers appeared in the doorway, as if sensing that the conversation had come to an end. Draco felt a thrill of real panic and leaned forward as much as he could, straining against the ropes. He had no idea if Weasley's had loosened at all – the other boy had remained silent. Which left them very few options. His voice was more hoarse and tight than he would have liked.

"Nott – _Nott –_ you don't have it in you to do this."

"Normally, we would bring Nagini in when dealing with traitors," Nott said, deaf to his pleas. "We had to get a little creative in this situation."

Draco swallowed hard. He kept his gaze on Nott, trying to fight the rising tide of desperation. Travers was making his way leisurely across the room, pulling his wand out, looking horrifically gleeful. Draco tried to take a deep breath to steady himself, but it shuddered in his lungs. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Weasel shaking his head wordlessly, eyes wide with panic. The other boy was moving his hands jerkily – did that mean his ropes were looser than before? Travers' hands were suddenly on his arm, pushing his sleeve back to reveal his Dark Mark, and any thought of Weasley promptly vanished from Draco's mind. He found himself straining back against the chair, his body cringing away from the man leering into his face.

"You defied the Dark Lord," Nott was saying. "You aided and conspired with His enemies. You are unfit to speak His name."

"I saved your fucking life, Nott!" Draco hissed, hating how thin his own voice sounded, hated that it was true. "Think about what you're doing – you were never like them."

"That's the thing," Nott replied softly. "I'm rising through the ranks. And if you want to do that, you have to be like Him."

"Don't worry, Malfoy," Travers murmured, placing the tip of his wand against the skin of Draco's inner elbow. "This is just the start. We're going to make this slow."

And then he was saying something, and Draco didn't have time to figure out what spell he was using before the pain hit. A strangled moan escaped him before he clamped his teeth shut, furious, intent on not letting them hear him scream. The burning agony was so intense that he became lightheaded almost at once, could barely recognise the warm flow of blood against his skin. It was as if Travers had inserted a large, flaming knife into his arm and was dragging it down to his wrist, moving tortuously slowly. He could feel cold sweat on his face, his back – he forced himself to breathe, screwed his eyes shut in an attempt to block it out. Dimly, as if from far away, he could hear Nott speaking.

"You know as well as we do that these Marks are forever – they don't come off. If we could tear it off you we would. Still, we felt we could start with a symbolic gesture."

He realised he had started swearing out loud and shuddered in a deep gasp of air, fought to bring himself under control. In a desperate bid to distract himself, he fixed his mind on the ropes on the other chair, the ropes he could no longer see. It was the only thing he had left to think about other than the pain, and he latched onto the task like a lifeboat. And then, suddenly, the heat and intensity vanished, replaced with a steady, fast, pulsing sting. He was left sucking in gulps of oxygen, sweat prickling on his skin, his whole body trembling. He cracked his eyes open enough to catch a glimpse of his arm – which, mercifully, was still attached. He thought they must have been hacking it off, but no – it was there, only now a deep, vertical, smouldering cut ran from his elbow to his wrist, almost invisible beneath a deep well of blood. His arm was still twitching violently, as if unconsciously trying to get free, and he quickly averted his gaze as his stomach lurched. Nott was still there, still looking at him with that horrible dead-eyed stare. Unconcerned. Unaffected. Draco closed his eyes.

"You can dwell on that," Nott's voice said. "We'll be back later."

Draco squinted up, still panting raggedly, in time to see the other boy vanish into the corridor. Almost immediately, Travers had leaned back into his line of vision. His face was split in a crooked grin. The exhilaration of closing in on his prey lit up in every pore of his skin as he wiped blood from the tip of his wand.

"Always used to think you were better than me, didn't you Malfoy?" he sneered. "Still think so?"

He moved closer. The threat brought Draco rudely back to their current situation, dulling the pain in his arm, and he focused on Weasley's ropes with renewed vigour. He could almost see time running out in front of him.

"You know what the first thing I'm gonna do when I'm finished with you is?" Travers leaned forwards, placing his hands on the arms of Draco's chair. His face hovered inches from Draco's. "I'm gonna go kill that Mudblood girlfriend of yours. Maybe after I stick it to her. Or before. I'll see how I feel."

Rage boiled up in Draco's chest like a flood. He was gripping the arms of the chair so hard his fingernails hurt. He wasn't sure if he was still trying to pull magic out of his guts or not. He stared back into Travers' gleeful little eyes, watched the other man's lips twist into a grin. He'd seen that look a thousand times before, usually directed at a Muggle or a Half-Blood. Only now, it was focussed unwaveringly on himself. He knew what happened to people who were on the end of that look.

So Draco smiled. Then he jerked forwards and rammed his forehead into Travers' face as hard as he could.

It hurt, but the savage rush of satisfaction he got from watching Travers tumble backwards, clutching his head, was worth it. When he straightened up, his nose was gushing blood. His anger still fizzing like a live wire, Draco let his smile grow wider. Travers wiped at the blood running down his chin, his lips trembling furiously. He strode forwards to stand over his prisoner once more, drawing his wand. Draco prepared himself for a curse, watching the tip of the wand warily. Travers held it in front of his face, his lips quirking dangerously.

"Travers?"

Selwyn had appeared in the doorway of the room, his arms folded, his thin face drawn. Draco didn't dare take his eyes off Travers to look. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Selwyn's shaven head tilt to one side.

"Travers, we're calling a meeting."

"Don't worry," Travers said, his voice perilously calm. "I won't be long."

Selwyn disappeared into the corridor. Across the room, Weasel made a cautious noise in the back of his throat, as if about to speak, but said nothing. Travers put his wand back into his pocket. He flexed his hand, rubbed his thumb over his knuckles. Draco watched in silence. He made a conscious effort to keep the smile on his face.

"Hey – you're just gonna stand there?" Weasel spoke up suddenly. His voice was wavering – he sounded scared. Not a good look. "Didn't you hear your secretary?"

Travers made a small movement with his head.

Draco had just enough time to brace himself before Travers' fist connected with his jaw. Blows came once, twice, three times – and then he lost count. He was vaguely aware of Weasel shouting something, as if from the end of a long tunnel. For a moment, he was convinced that he could feel slippery marble floor against his skin and see scales shifting in the darkness, but he caught himself before terror could overwhelm him. It couldn't be real – he didn't have hallucinations now, and the snake was dead. The darkness, at least, was real.

~O~

 _"If I were you, I would put that wand down. Now."_

Hermione held tight to her wand, her hand shaking violently. She could feel the tension in Harry, who was still standing at her side, could feel the electricity crackling in the air. Her blood roared in her ears. She could feel the net closing in around her. Too much of the situation had been planned – they had been toyed with from the very moment they had returned to Grimmauld Place, and she was finished with complying. The voice spoke again, less aggressive, less forceful.

"Hermione."

She sucked in a deep breath and risked looking over her shoulder, trying to concentrate despite her pounding heart. With a thrill of panic she recognised Hestia, and then two other Aurors behind her. The Aurors were staring past her at the Death Eater who wore Draco's face, but Hestia's eyes were locked on hers. The rain streamed down her pale skin, making her look gaunt and dangerous in the dim light. She held Hermione's gaze for a moment longer before continuing.

"I would advise against casting an Unforgiveable Curse in the presence of three Aurors."

"Aurors?" Hermione turned a little more, still keeping her wand trained on her prisoner. "Don't lie to me – we know you're working with the Death Eaters."

"Because he told you so?"

She faltered. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Harry look at her quickly – he was just as uncertain as she was. It was true that the Draco who had led them out here with proclamations of Hestia's double agency was not the real Draco, and yet there were still things that did not add up. She let herself look at Harry briefly, tying to silently formulate a plan. His wide-eyed gaze returned her own, and he offered her a minuscule nod. He spoke up, his voice only slightly tentative.

"But if you're not a Death Eater… I mean, where was the security at Grimmauld Place? How could Ron and Malfoy be taken without any alarm being raised?"

"I'll be happy to explain everything," Hestia said in a calm and firm voice. "But first, I'll need you to hand your Death Eater over to my colleagues. This situation is a little too fragile to continue as it currently stands."

Harry glanced at Hermione. She could tell that he wanted to give in, but was waiting for her cue. Loyal to a fault. Her hand clamped tighter around her wand. She felt like a cornered dog, waiting to be hit. She wasn't prepared to trust Hestia without answers, but her gut told her that they didn't have a choice. After all, the three Aurors could have overpowered she and Harry by now if they wanted to. Hestia's eyes narrowed.

"Hermione, I understand what you're feeling, but I need you to put your wand down." She shifted slightly, drawing their attention to the fact that her own wand was drawn, although not raised. "We can either do this the easy way, or the hard way."

It was true – they were far outnumbered. Hestia's question was more of a polite push towards amenability rather than a plea. Slowly, reluctantly, Hermione lowered her wand and stood aside. Instantly the two Aurors moved in on the Death Eater, wands drawn. Harry stepped over to stand beside her and together they watched as the Aurors pulled their prisoner down from the alleyway wall and immobilized him, crowding around his tight-faced form. Hestia came closer, stowing her wand away in her robes. She spoke to them but kept her eyes on the prisoner.

"I'm sure you two have some questions."

"You're working with them," Hermione repeated, her voice wobbling fiercely. "You gave them Ron and Draco."

"I'm not, Hermione," Hestia said. "A Death Eater used Polyjuice potion to impersonate the Auror who was left behind to guard Grimmauld Place. He and an accomplice abducted your friends."

"How do you know that?"

Hestia's dark eyes glinted in the dim light. "I knew that my colleague was, in fact, a Death Eater under cover when we left the house."

Her words sank into Hermione's mind like stones into mud. She was barely aware of Harry stammering beside her, his eyes wide as saucers.

"But… but why would…"

"I guessed at their plan, but couldn't be sure we could capture all of them without letting them carry it out at least partially. As I expected, they contacted you and lured you out. We were able to track you two and now, thanks to you, we have captured a Death Eater."

"You put Ron and Draco in danger on a _hunch_?" Herimone's lungs felt tight. She could only stare at Hestia in horror, her heart pounding in her chest. "How _could_ you? They could be dead–"

"The Death Eaters won't kill them, they're too valuable. And if we act fast, we should be able to have them back within the hour." Hestia glanced at her briefly, and something seemed to soften in her gaze. Her voice lowered slightly. "It was a gamble. A regrettable one."

"How are we supposed to find them?" Harry pressed. "We don't know how long they've been gone, they could be anywhere…"

"We came prepared," Hestia replied.

She reached into her robes and brought out a small, familiar blue bottle. Veritaserum. Hermione felt her heart lurch, caught sight of hope once more. Hestia strode away from them towards the Death Eater and the other two Aurors, her back straight, the blue bottle held in one hand. Hermione felt Harry's fingers brush her arm, flinched slightly at the unexpected contact.

"You okay?"

She shook her head. "Am I _okay?_ Hestia used Draco and Ron as bait."

"But she'll find out where they're being kept. We can get to them."

Hermione swallowed hard. "And what if it's too late?"

~O~

"Malfoy. _Malfoy."_

Someone was shaking him roughly, sending jolts of fierce pain through his head. He winced, lifted a hand to grasp the sleeve of the offending arm. Everything was distant, as if someone had wrapped him tightly in cotton wool, or was holding him under a layer of quicksand. He dragged his leaden eyelids open, felt one snap shut again in pain. Through the blurry haze of colours and shapes, he could just about make out ginger hair.

" _Malfoy!"_

"Fu'k off," he managed to say. "Ow…"

The hand stopped shaking him, and then abruptly let go and slapped him across the face. He recoiled, blinking hard, his vision sharpening rapidly.

" _Fuck –_ gerroff!"

He shoved hard at the person, and only then realised that his arms were free. One was distinctly heavier than the other. Which prompted him to remember where he was. He forced his bad eye open further, and finally his vision cleared enough for him to recognise the tiled walls of their prison. Weasley was in front of him, closer than he would normally like, his face tight with panic. The bruise on his forehead had turned more purple now, which made for a slightly ridiculous contrast with his bright red hair. He stood over Draco, his earnest gaze only slightly disrupted with a scowl, his forehead prickling with a few beads of sweat. Draco stared back in confusion, trying to piece together what had happened. Weasely shook him again, earning another irritated groan.

"Are you awake?" the other boy demanded. "Because we need to get out of here, and I'm not carrying you."

"How'd you…"

Draco looked around the room for the second chair Weasely had once been tied to, and saw the ropes lying abandoned on the floor. The door to their prison was shut; Travers was nowhere to be seen. It was if he had lurched forward in time. Weasely seized the front of his jacket and pulled him roughly upright – the world titled violently before he caught his footing, ashamed to find himself clutching for the other boy's shoulders for balance.

"You were using non-verbal magic, right?" Weasley said, speaking very slowly and clearly, as if attempting to communicate with a child. "You made them loose enough – I managed to get my hands free."

Draco's brain was slow to process this information. He couldn't quite believe that his wordless magic had been strong enough to be effective. But there was no other explanation – somehow, it had worked. And yet, they still had to find a way out of the building without wands, and past a pack of vengeful Death Eaters. His arm seared as he let go of Weasley and he gasped, glancing down gingerly at it. Strips of flannel material had been wrapped tightly around his forearm and tied off, which seemed to account for the throbbing pain. He stared in confusion at the makeshift bandage, and then looked up to take in Weasley, who was no longer wearing his overshirt, but rather only a rather wrinkled Chudley Canons t-shirt.

"Why… what're you…" he said, squinting at Weasely as he let go of the other boy. He swayed a little, but managed to hold his ground. "Why not just leave me?"

Weasley glared at him. "I thought about it, believe me."

He turned and made his way to the door, laid a hand flat against the metal.

"I can't get the door open. Can you open it?"

Draco let out a weak laugh. "Fuck no."

"What, you're not even going to try?"

He rolled his eyes, but focused on the door as best he could. His head was already spinning, and as soon as he tried to tap into any magical energy the vertigo increased tenfold. He pressed harder, and then sank back down into the chair with a groan as his head surged with pain. He blinked away the dark spots swarming across his eyes, breathless, his hands shaking. For a moment he wondered how bad his condition must be. Then he quickly put the thought out of his head.

"No," he repeated. "No fucking way that's happening."

"Alright," Weasley said grimly. "Plan B. Next time someone comes in, we ambush them and take their wand."

"Recognize that plan," Draco smirked, squinting up at him. "It wouldn't have worked then, and it won't work now."

"You got a better idea?"

He didn't. He felt cautiously at his face, and discovered dried and wet blood mingling on his skin. He winced as his fingers probed bruised, tender flesh. He didn't want to know what he currently looked like. His brain felt like slush. He did his best to pull himself together, to force his brain into action. Weasley was examining the door, as if expecting to discover a secret button. Draco sat forward on his chair. His hand came away from his face bloody.

"When did they last come in?"

"What?"

Weasley swivelled around to frown at him. Draco tried to shake off the automatic tide of anger and tried to respond in a level voice.

"They come in once every hour, try to keep people on edge. Was the last time they were here when I was awake?"

Weasley frowned. "No-one's been in since the first time."

"How long ago was that? How long was I out?"

"I don't know. A while?"

Draco began to scowl and then quickly stopped. Expressions hurt. He levered himself out of the chair. Standing did not feel good. He made his way over to the other side of the door and leaned back against the wall. He could feel blood pulsing in his head, in his arm. He felt sick. But Weasel was looking at him with a very strange expression – a mixture of familiar loathing and something else that Draco could not quite decipher. He sighed.

"Ok… Ok, we have to figure out how many of them there are."

"I counted three."

"Hestia gave me a list of Death Eaters that were still alive," Draco muttered. "Some weren't imprisoned."

"Alright, who?"

Draco leaned his pounding head back against the wall, screwing his eyes shut. The names stumbled through his head like droplets of water chasing down a window.

"Ah… Rookwood… Lestrange…"

"Imprisoned."

"Yeah, I know," he snarled. "Travers, Selwyn and Nott… and Jugson."

"That's it?"

"That's what Hestia thought," Draco muttered. "And we better hope she's right, because we can't even fight that many."

"They could have recruited more."

Draco let out a groan. He felt the wrappings on his arm and noted that patches had soaked through with blood. He found himself wondering if Travers had hit an artery, and if perhaps that's why he was being so slow to panic. He wanted nothing more than to sit down on the floor, right there by the door. He compromised and settled on doubling over, his injured arm hugged to his chest, the other braced against his leg. There was a very real possibility that he would be sick if the spinning in his head kept up, and he really didn't want that to happen. He dragged a hand across his face, sweat and blood mingling on his fingers, and glanced up to find Weasley's eyes still riveted on him.

"Fuck, _what_ , Weasel?"

Weasley grimaced. "You okay?"

Draco spat out a hoarse laugh. "Obviously not, you fucking idiot. How're you doing?"

"They cut your Mark," the other boy pressed. "They… You're not working with them."

Draco had to go over the words again in his head to ensure he had heard correctly. He squinted across the doorway in disbelief.

"Are you fucking serious? No, Weasel, I – am – _not_ a Death Eater. How many times do I have to say it?"

"But why have you been trying to get close to Hermione if…"

Weasley stopped. Draco couldn't even come up with words that could explain how ridiculous his half-formed question was before a wave of nausea had caught him up and he was having to focus on breathing instead of talking. He was sure that the blood soaking through the material around his arm was warm, which meant that the injury was still draining. He fumbled with it, trying to pull it tighter. When he looked up again, Weasley's face was a pale beneath his fiery hair. Anger, slowly turning to unhappy resignation, was etched into his skin. His shoulders lifted in a deep breath.

"Right. So it's real."

Draco squinted at him in disbelief. He didn't know what Weasley was expecting him to say, or what an appropriate response to the statement would consist of. Was he supposed to believe that Weasel had been in denial the entire time? As he drew breath to broach the silence, the lock on the door clicked and the two prisoners locked eyes, adrenaline suddenly trembling in the air. Draco balled his good hand into a fist and flattened himself against the wall, the air freezing in his lungs. The door creaked as it swung open and he recognised Selwyn's face as the man stepped forward. In such situations, a split second was all that could be spared – Draco threw himself forward and shoved the Death Eater into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Selwyn stumbled and span around, wand lifting, but Draco drove into him with all his weight and carried them both to the floor.

The motion had made him dizzy and he was already weak – all it took was a firm kick from Selwyn to throw him off. He landed hard on his wounded arm and let out a strangled cry, tried to clamber upright, but Weasley had already taken his place. He caught at Selwyn's wrist and forced it upwards as the Death Eater tried to aim at Draco, pinning it to the floor; his other hand delivered a swift, strong blow to his jaw. Apparently when Weasley had time to prepare for an oncoming attack, he could be of some use – by the time Draco had climbed unsteadily to his feet, Selwyn was unconscious and Weasley was picking up his wand, panting. He glanced up, offering Draco a brief nod.

"See? It's a good plan."

"We were lucky it wasn't Travers," Draco replied weakly. "Or Jugson."

Blood was trickling into his eye – he wiped at it with the back of his hand. He was immensely relived that they had managed to subdue Selwyn without much of a struggle. His arm was next to useless and his head was a rattling shell. He was sure that, had Selwyn put up a better fight, he would have been completely useless in any attempts to escape. The state of his arm was particularly disconcerting – he had never been victim to torture in such a way before, and he didn't enjoy the sense of terror that had set into his bones and refused to shake free since the experience.

Across the room, Weasley was turning the newly acquired wand over in his hand.

"Hang on, I'll heal you," he said, giving it a preliminary shake.

Draco's eyebrows leapt upwards. He didn't know if he was more alarmed at the offer, or concerned at letting Weasley rearrange his face. The other boy was pointing his wand at Selwyn first, his face screwing up in concentration. Although he said the spell rather calmly, the ropes that jumped from the wand darted across the room and dissolved on his first two tries before finally wrapping around their prisoner. Draco's eyebrows arched as Weasley turned to face him once more, lifting the wand again.

"Ok, hurry up…"

"No way."

"What?"

"You think I'm letting you anywhere near my face with that, you've got another thing coming," Draco snarled.

Weasley scowled. "I can do it, just stay still."

"I'm good, I'll wait."

He moved towards the door. Weasel huffed angrily but followed. He held out the wand as Draco paused by the door, but he just smirked.

"Are you fucking kidding? I can't even hold that right now."

"So what's the plan then?"

Draco was busy looking up and down the corridor. He didn't recognise anything about the building – it must be a new hideout since the war. Which meant he didn't know an escape route. They would just have to play it by ear. He glanced back at Weasley, who was waiting.

"No plan. Just try and keep the wand ready. And don't hit me."

"For fuck's…"

Weasley broke off in a groan of frustration. Draco motioned for him to shut the door as the inched out into the corridor, his ears pricked for any sound of movement ahead. He could feel a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck, could feel his heart beginning to beat faster in his chest. He didn't like this situation at all – wandering the unknown depths of the Death Eater's headquarters was a sure-fire way to get themselves killed. But they had few other choices.

Draco's mind wandered again to Hermione. She couldn't have been captured too. If she had, Travers would have surely brought her in earlier to dangle her in front of them. Although he couldn't be sure that she was safe, he could at least know that she wasn't trapped here.

 _"Don't forget – you said you weren't going anywhere. So you better not."_

He could taste guilt as her words rang in his head. He had promised her that nothing bad would happen, that he would contact her every two hours. Who knew how much time had passed now, how long she had been waiting for him? How many more times would he get her back, only to lose sight of her once again? Surely he had had too many lucky chances in the last few months for this to work out.

"Which way?"

Weasley was looking from left to right uncertainly, the stolen wand held up in readiness. Draco frowned at the corridor. He felt that one end seemed lighter than the other – a possible indication that it led to an exit rather than a broom cupboard. He made his way towards it, keeping close to the wall, and Weasley fell in behind him. The corner led to another short corridor, and then a flight of concrete stairs leading upwards. Draco hesitated at the bottom of them and took advantage of the opportunity to lean against the wall, holding his wounded arm against his chest. Weasley stood beside him, frowning uncertainly.

"You think they're up there?"

Draco grimaced. "Almost definitely."

"What happens when we get there?"

"Well, I suggest you set the closest thing in sight on fire and try to disarm whoever you can whilst making a run for the exit."

Weasley scoffed. "I doubt you can run right now."

Draco tried to ignore the flare of pride that ignited at Weasel's tone and shook his head. "I didn't say to wait for me, did I?"

There was a brief pause, in which Weasley gave him a long look. Draco could almost see his thoughts wrestling in his hazel eyes. Then his ginger head jerked in a fierce shake. "No good. I can't come out of here without you, Malfoy."

The statement caught Draco off guard. Of all of Weasley's strange behaviour so far, this had to be the oddest. He shot the other boy a quizzical frown.

"Why the hell not? Hasn't stopped you in the past."

"If you're really not a Death Eater, that means I only have your personality to hate. I really, really wanted you to be a Death Eater," Weasley said, in a voice that was very low and tight. His eyes glinted in the dim light as he fixed Draco with a burning stare. "You'll never deserve her as far as I'm concerned. You'll always be what you always were…"

He stopped, as if reminding himself to get back on track. He swallowed hard before beginning, tearing his eyes away.

"But if she's chosen you, then… then I have to accept it. For her, not for you. You hear me?"

Draco blinked at him in confusion. He managed a halting laugh, trying to diffuse the uncomfortable, serious turn their conversation had taken.

"Jesus, you hit your head back in the scuffle at Grimmauld Place?"

Weasley scowled. "Don't push it, Malfoy. You're still scum." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "So. We leave here together."

Draco entertained the possibility that Travers' punches had altered his grip on reality. Because the words Weasel had just uttered suggested that they might be about to enter the next room as newfound allies – Weasley might have just agreed to risk his own life to get him back to Hermione. It was all too strange. Stranger even than watching movies and drinking tea with Potter himself. But he could hardly say that, so instead he scrubbed a hand over his face and shrugged wearily.

"Alright." He squinted up the stairs. "In that case, you go first. I'll try to help and stay with you. Create a diversion and make for the exit."

Weasley offered a short nod. "Just make sure you don't fall behind."

"I thought you weren't going anywhere without me, Weasel?"

Weasley scowled at him and moved on up the stairs, careful not to make a sound as he went. Draco followed, allowing himself a smirk. As long as he could still have fun, it shouldn't matter whether they were friends or enemies. Perhaps this wouldn't change things quite so much. Weasley suddenly stopped, and Draco peered around him to see that they had reached a door at the top of the steps. Weasley looked back at him, his voice low.

"I can hear someone."

Draco climbed the stairs to stand beside him and pressed his ear against the door. Weasley was right – he could just about hear the dull rumble of voices. He couldn't gauge how many. He swore under his breath and looked up to find Weasley watching him.

"Element of surprise?" the other boy muttered.

Draco would have laughed if the situation wasn't so dire. He nodded and reached for the door handle. He tried it, careful to use only the most miniscule motion, and the lock clicked softly – it was open. He glanced up at Weasley, who had lifted the wand ready.

"On three?"

Weasley nodded.

"One… tw–"

The wand went off and the door exploded open. Draco barely had time to register what had happened before he found his gaze landing on Travers, who was standing directly in his line of sight in the room beyond, and whose expression of utter surprise was almost comical. The room seemed to be a planning space of sorts – there was a table with several papers spread out on it, cupboards lining one wall, some chairs strewn around. And another door on the other side. Draco didn't have time to think about what he was seeing before a jinx was sent in his direction and he ducked. Weasley had suddenly leapt in front of him and, with some effort, sent a couple of curses into the room. Through the smoke and flashing lights Draco could make out another figure – Nott, it had to be. Which left Jugson unaccounted for.

Draco realised that Weasley had seized his wrist and was attempting to drag him into the room, and forced his legs to work. They made it a couple of steps before the table that had been standing a few feet away flew at them out of the smoke and slammed straight into Weasley, sending him flying across the room. Travers emerged instantly like a shark out of dark water. Weasley was scrambling in the dust and smoke, feeling around – with a thrill of panic, Draco realised that he was no longer holding the wand. He lifted his hand, trying to gather some kind of energy together, but he was pulling on nothing. Even as he did so, a chair came careering at him and he dropped to his knees to avoid it, his wounded arm searing. He lifted his head in time to see Travers standing over Weasley, his wand lifted. Weasley had found the wand and was sending curses back at him, but his control of the wand was wobbly at best – the next moment it had flown into Travers' hand.

Before he could cry out, the second figure emerged from the chaos.

"No, don't kill him!" Nott roared. "We need him!"

"I wasn't going to," Travers muttered.

Ropes span from his wand and twisted around Weasley's hands and legs. He struggled, wriggling backwards on the ground away from Travers' advancing boots. His frantic eyes darted to Draco, who could do nothing but stare back. He reached for his magic once more, and once more was rewarded with nothing. His energy was spent. He managed to force himself to his feet, breathing heavily, his head spinning. Travers and Nott exchanged places, Nott's wand trained on the immobilised Weasley, Travers smirking as he closed in on Draco. Draco lifted his hands slowly, meeting Weasley's panicked stare for a second. He felt as if he could see everything very clearly, could see exactly what was going to happen. For a moment, he felt like asking Weasley to tell Hermione… tell her what? Any words of consolation were ash on his tongue. He stepped backwards as Travers drew closer.

"This one, though," Travers said. "We can kill this one."

Draco stopped, his heel hitting the wall behind him. His eyes remained trained on Travers' face, on the lips pulling back over the crooked, slightly dirty teeth, on the intense little eyes that looked him up and down in the way that a fox looks at a rabbit. His whirling mind told him to make peace with everything, because it was the last thing he could do. He breathed in.

And as he exhaled, several things happened at once.

Travers fired. The door across the room burst open in a scream of crunching metal. Nott dropped bonelessly to the floor as wild jets of light span through the air. Draco had ducked on instinct, his hands lifting to cover his head, and heard the curse impact the wall beside his head, heard the tiles shatter and sizzle as they melted from the heat. He lifted his head just in time to see Travers turn and be hit with a blast of white light. The Death Eater lifted off the ground and flew across the room, dropped like a stone somewhere nearby in the rubble. Through the smokescreen from the hail of curses stepped a familiar figure. Draco felt his legs trembling violently in disbelief, found himself gaping wordlessly at the stern thin eyebrows, the sleek ponytail, the serious brown eyes that darted around the room before coming to rest on him.

"Eyes on Malfoy," Hestia Jones said. "Sound out. Everyone ok?"

A series of shouts went up behind her. Someone darted across the room in the direction of where Weasley had been.

"Eyes on Weasley," they called out. "We've got them."

And as the group began to spread out across the room, a bushy-haired shape emerged from behind Hestia, and Draco felt his stomach drop away. He pushed himself weakly off the wall, but before he could make his way towards her across the rubble she was running, and the next thing he knew her arms were around him and her hair was flooding over him. Her voice rushed into his ringing ears, shuddering like a plea.

" _Draco."_

He felt all the air evaporate out of his lungs in a whimper of relief, clutched at her, felt her rapidly beating heart pressing hard against his. They staggered back against the wall and a combination of shock and exhaustion had him sliding down it to the floor. She came with him, still entwined, pulling away briefly to kiss him hard. He tasted blood alongside her tongue. Her forehead pressed against his when she stopped to breathe, her hands still running over him as if to reassure herself that he was real.

"Good timing, nerd," he breathed into her hair.

"Are you alright?" she whispered, breaking away long enough to speak. "Oh my _god_ , your arm…"

He blinked up at her dazedly, watched her anxious brown eyes checking him over, let her run her hands over the blood and bruises mingling on his skin. She touched the makeshift bandages carefully, trembling as she did so.

"It's ok, I'll call Hestia over… Are you okay? Draco?"

He knew there was a stupid, faded smile on his face. He couldn't stop looking at her. She had to ask again before he could nod.

"I'm spectacular," he said softly. "Promise."

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say – her shoulders heaved in another violent sob and she pressed herself against him, her hot tears almost tangible on his cheeks. He could feel his own throat growing tight and swallowed hard, summoned the strength to put his arms around her waist. He didn't want Hestia to be called over, didn't want anyone to interrupt them. He drew in a shaky breath and let it out slowly, drank in the feeling of her in his arms. Inexplicably, he hadn't died. He had been given her back. He rested his head against hers and closed his eyes, unable to do anything but hold on tight to her.

 **One more chapter to go! Hope this one was ok - got an idea for the ending which I think you guys will love.**

 **Reviews are most welcome. Thanks for reading!**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_ or the characters - just the plot bunny.

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 **IT'S THE FINAL CHAPTER! What a ride it's been. Thank you so much for everyone who stuck with me, despite the looooong gaps in between updating, and all of the thoughtful and kind reviews you guys have posted on this story. I've really, really enjoyed writing this and would never have got it finished without the tidal wave of internet support. It took me a while to figure out how to wrap this up, and I eventually decided on this because a) who doesn't love a flashback? and b) everyone seemed to love the Yule Ball scene so much, I thought it deserved a little cameo.**

 **Thanks for hanging around for the last chapter, gang. Fingers crossed you like it...**

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 **Intro:** Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, what remains of the Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both been keeping for four years. Dramione fic set post-war with flashbacks to Hogwarts, much limp, angst and bad language.

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 _Then_

 _Fourth Year_

It had been a week since they had kissed in the damp fog beside the Quidditch pitch. She had run into him a couple of times in the corridors, and her face had flushed bright red every single time. One glimpse of his grey-blue eyes and sharp face could completely distract her from what she was supposed to be talking about, and have her stammering through excuses to Harry and Ron as to why she had suddenly gone quiet. Luckily, the three of them were busier than ever trying to figure out what the second task would be, and trying to crack the mystery of the golden egg clue. And with Harry and Ron getting on once more, she found it slightly easier to escape into her own thoughts. The frustration of so often being in the line for class together, of being within a few metres of him in the Great Hall or passing him in the corridor, and yet not being able to speak to him or catch his eye, was unbearable. She wanted more than anything to reach out, to make some kind of contact, but it was more difficult than it seemed.

At last, in potions class, they were able to share a word. She had gone to the storage cupboard to find more mandrake root, and it was big enough that she had to step right in to find the correct shelf of ingredients. Almost as soon as she was inside, she became very aware that someone had followed her. The back of her neck prickled with anticipation, and she glanced up sharply to see him standing in the doorway. His lips were twisted into a smirk, which, for the first time was alluring rather than threatening. Almost sexy. His teeth fastened over his bottom lip for a moment before he moved closer, stepping inside the cupboard, and she turned around quickly to face him.

"Pass the banshee ashes, would you Granger?" he said loftily, holding out his hand.

For a moment, she was confused. Were they about to go back to what they had been before? Had he felt so little that night that he could slip back into their usual dynamic without a thought? Trying to hide her disappointment, she felt for the small bottle on the shelf and held it out to him, and it was only then that she noticed the note between his fingers. His smirk widened – clearly he was highly amused by the cocktail of emotions rushing through her.

"Hurry up, I haven't got all day," he said, glancing meaningfully over his shoulder.

She took the hint and exchanged the note for the bottle. At once, he turned on his heel and strode off, back into the classroom. She turned away from the door, unable to resist unfolding the note instantly. His writing was incredibly neat, elegant, slightly curved.

 _Hiding from me, Granger? We have the next period free. Obviously you're ditching the Golden Trio and meeting me by the Great Lake?_

She felt her face split in a huge smile.

"You alright, Hermione?"

She flinched, crumpling the note into her closed fist, and span around. It was Ron, hovering at the entrance of the supply cupboard.

"Yes!" she squeaked. "Just… just can't find the…"

"The mandrake root?"

She nodded. He frowned and pointed at the shelf beside her.

"Isn't that it?"

She pretended to notice it for the first time, and nodded, already feeling the colour rising in her cheeks. He looked like he might question her, but then there was a distant ' _boom_ ' and he bolted back into the classroom, swearing under his breath. She had enough time to slip the note into her pocket and take a deep breath before returning to the classroom. She chanced a glance over her shoulder, where Draco was smirking, and smiled. He offered a short nod in response and then returned his attention to Pansy, who was scowling at their textbook.

After the class, she hung back under the pretence of asking Snape a question. After agreeing to meet the others in the common room in a few minutes, she waited a couple of moments and then hurried out into the dungeons. She kept her head down as she made her way out of the castle and down the large stone steps, wishing her bushy hair did not make her quite so conspicuous. The air was cool – although the snow had melted away, the seasons were still in transition between winter and spring. And yet the sun was still able to offer a gentle glow low in the sky, and it lit the surface of the lake. It took her some time to get down there, cautious as she was should she run into someone she knew. And when she finally reached the lake, she had been so swept up in the anxiety of getting there that she had forgotten to look out for him. She stopped, her feet sinking slightly into the pebbled edge, glancing around.

It was only the flash of white blonde hair at the edge of the forest that drew her attention. Her heart leapt and she glanced around furtively before making her way over. He was waiting just beyond the treeline, hidden in a small clearing, his hands pushed deep in his pockets. She had the impression that he was making an effort to look cool, which in turn made her feel extremely satisfied.

"Took your time. Did you stop off at the library on the way?"

She cast her eyes upwards. "Some of us have friends to shake off."

"Oh, of course. Potty and the Weasel." His head tilted to one side, his smirk flickering for a moment. "Did you… mention anything to them?"

She shook her head. "No. Did you? Tell anyone, I mean."

He shook his head too. They were quiet for a moment, silently understanding one another's position on the whole thing. It was almost awkward, being together once again. She found herself wondering why he had brought her here, whether he simply wanted to check that she had kept quiet or had actually wanted to see her. But he was looking at her with a kind of hunger in his eyes, as if ready to pounce, despite his apparently relaxed pose. She took a step forward, unable to help herself. Maybe it was in her imagination, but she felt like there was a kind of magnetism between them. The memory of his mouth on hers was extremely fresh, and she wanted more than anything to try it again.

"Probably for the best," he said. "Can't imagine your pals would be best pleased."

"Or yours," she retorted. "How would Crabbe and Goyle take the news?"

He smirked, mirroring her step forward. They were closer now, perhaps one last metre between them. She couldn't look away from him. The cold sunlight was dappling through the trees and leaving a pattern on his face, on his slender neck and pale skin.

"You're right," he said. "Better call the whole thing off, eh?"

"What 'thing' would that be?"

He rolled his eyes. "Exactly."

But neither of them moved. She found herself noticing the way the breeze stirred his hair, his robes. His teeth once again fastened over his bottom lip for the briefest of moments.

"Besides," he said after a pause, "I was thinking of asking out Cho Chang. Maybe you could talk to her for me, put in a good word."

She found herself laughing out loud. "Sure," she said, with a grin. "I'll tell her you're a great kisser."

The words made her blush instantly – she was aware that she had just said something entirely too flirty to ever be said in her voice. And yet the way his eyebrows leapt and the quirk at the corner of his mouth brought a sense of savage victory, and she found that it gave her the confidence to move closer to him. He did not step away, not even when she was close enough to touch him. He took in a slow, steady breath through his nose and brought one hand out of his pocket. His long, slender fingers drew her attention for a moment before he spoke.

"You sure you wouldn't be jealous?"

"Why would I be?"

"Oh, no reason."

His hand moved, and came to rest on her waist. She abruptly found herself caught up in the intensity of his blue-grey eyes. She felt her chest grow small. Whatever it was they were doing was still so new that she didn't quite know what to do or say. But her heart was fluttering in her chest, and as his other hand moved upwards to brush her cheek she felt herself leaning forward, suddenly eager to feel his lips against hers again…

"What was that?"

He spoke just millimetres from her lips, so close that she didn't care what he said, she just wanted to kiss him… but then her ears caught the distant sound of voices and her eyes snapped open. He was suddenly stiff, squinting towards the treeline.

"Is that…"

Hermione's ears caught the voices, which were growing nearer and louder, and her heart jerked. It wasn't just anyone walking the grounds of Hogwarts. It was someone familiar.

"Oh _god,_ it's… come on!"

She snatched up his hand and he bolted after her without question, slipping behind a nearby tree. But it was not a good enough hiding place – they would be seen, surely. They were too close to the edge of the lake, and the trees were too narrow. Hermione looked around in panic, and then spotted a large bush nearby. She dragged at him, and he staggered after her. Her foot caught on a root and they tumbled directly into the bush, the whole whirlwind so disorientating that they simply froze when they hit the ground. She could only hope that the wide leaves obscured them from sight. He had fallen on top of her, bracing himself with his knees and elbows so as not to crush her, and she lay there on her back, her ears pricked for movement. Almost at once the voices became clearer, and she knew that the group must have neared their hiding place.

"… shouldn't listen to them, Neville," Ginny's voice was saying emphatically. "They're just typical Slytherins, not worth the time of day."

"You know, Salazar Slytherin was often troubled by Wrangleworts," Luna Lovegood's dreamy voice said. "They say that's why he was so wicked all the time."

"What's a Wranglewort?" Dean Thomas' voice asked.

"What you need, Neville, is a decent bat-bogey hex," Ginny said, ignoring the others. "It's really easy – look, I'll show you."

Hermione met Draco's gaze as he crouched over her. He looked uncharacteristically frazzled, leaves sticking out of his hair, his collar twisted from the fall. The ground was slightly damp – they had not chosen most comfortable hiding place. She could only imagine with silent horror what would happen if they were discovered, if the others just happened to glance over… She suddenly realised that Draco's white blonde hair was bright enough to catch the sun and be seen through the leaves – and he was holding himself up, clearly afraid to put all his weight on her. As the others laughed nearby, she caught his gaze.

 _Your hair,_ she mouthed desperately.

The look of utter panic and confusion on his face was so funny that she had to suppress a giggle that threatened to break free.

 _Your hair,_ she repeated.

He seemed to finally get it and his eyes widened. He ducked his head lower, his hair brushing her cheek in the process. She suddenly became very aware that she could feel the whole length of his body pressed against her – his chest, his stomach, his legs, his hips… She felt heat building in her face and pressed her lips together tightly, trying to regain some control. She wasn't used to her body reacting quite so quickly. Ginny's voice floated towards them.

"Come on, Neville, just try it!"

"I don't want to," Neville's voice said sullenly. "Look, I just want my Remembrall back."

"Well, do you remember which one of them took it?" Dean Thomas asked. "We'll go find it."

"Remembralls are just a conspiracy anyway," Luna said warmly. "I wouldn't worry too much."

Draco turned his head, his eyes fixing on hers, and the next second she was lost in them again. She was barely even aware of the others talking. She opened her mouth to speak, sucked in a short breath, and then remained silent. His gaze moved slowly from her eyes to her lips and then back. Then he leaned a little closer, and his breath brushed her earlobe as he spoke.

"I think they're going," he whispered.

A shiver ran down her spine, and she forced herself to focus on what the others were saying.

"… even want to?" Neville was demanding. "I thought it could have been Crabbe, but they were gone so quickly–"

"Alright, alright," Ginny's voice said emphatically. "Let's go find Crabbe. But when we find him, I'm showing you how to cast a bat-bogey hex!"

Their footsteps and laughter died away, and Draco let out a sigh. He lifted himself up on his elbows again, his face hovering directly above hers.

"Close call," he murmured.

"Yeah," she whispered.

For a moment they were quiet. He could easily have climbed off her, and yet he hesitated. She suddenly realised that she didn't care at all that the ground was damp, or that there were leaves in her hair. She was so caught up in being this close to him again. It made her feel giddy, breathing him in like alcohol, like smoke. His tongue raced across his lips. And then she couldn't take it anymore, and reached for him. Her hands fisted lightly in his robes, a silent invitation. He moved down towards her at once, and the next moment his lips had formed a soft, pleasant heat against hers. Her heart began to pound in earnest and she made a small noise in the back of her throat. She realised that her hand had lifted without her even noticing to run through his hair, coming to rest at the back of his neck. He broke away for air, and she found herself slightly breathless too.

"Are you trying to seduce me, Granger?"

She grinned.

It was insane for them to even consider carrying it on. It made no sense at all, and there was a constant and real threat of someone finding out what they were doing. And yet she couldn't help herself. They skipped dinner in the Great Hall to lurk in the back of the library. They invented homework assignments to fob the others off during free periods. They sat by the lake in twilight, just within the trees and just out of sight.

It was that very lake that she clawed her way out of barely two months later, Krum's arm wrapped around her waist. She had not anticipated being involved in the second task, and the Great Lake was a good deal colder than she had been expecting when Dumbledor had pulled the four hostages out of class that morning. When she broke through the surface, it was to the rather alarming sight of a shark head right beside her. Her initial shock was muffled as it began to transfigure back into a human head, at which point it became apparent that Krum had successfully completed the task. He pulled her from the water, and as towels were wrapped around her shoulders, she found her eyes straying up towards the stands. Draco's white blonde hair was unmistakable, and she thought she could almost make out an expression of grim jealously on his face. She tried to focus on what Krum was saying to her, and her heart sank.

She tried to let him down gently. As she did so, it was not lost on her that during Christmas, if he had made such an offer, she may have responded differently, may have been excited or proud to have been asked. And yet after the Yule Ball, the night she had only attended due to his invitation, she had lost any kind of interest in him. Someone else had stolen the spotlight. Krum took it bravely, promising instead to keep in touch by owl after the tournament.

That night, the Gryffindor common room was alight with celebrations. Fred and George had managed to sneak some butterbeer into the castle, and Harry had barely had time to change before the others were begging to tell the tale of the second task over and over again, Ron adding in more elaborate details at every retelling. Her hair was not yet dry, and she was enjoying the warm comfort of lying on the sofa in front of the fire between Ginny and Luna when Seamus suddenly stood up and put a finger to his lips. The room gradually fell silent, students glancing about anxiously at one another. It was past curfew, not to mention the fact that they were not allowed alcohol inside the school.

"Did you hear that?" Seamus whispered.

"What?" Ron hissed back. "What was it?"

"I thought I heard someone in the corridor," Seamus said, glancing warily at the portrait entrance of the common room.

After a tense pause, Fred unfolded himself from the armchair he had been slouched in and passed George his butterbeer, rolling his eyes theatrically at the hush atmosphere.

"Probably just McGonagall trying to get a look-in on the party. I'll check."

They waited as he sidled over to the portrait and opened it a crack, peering out into the corridor. After a few long moments of silence, he slowly withdrew and closed the portrait behind him.

"What is it?" Harry whispered. "What's out there?"

Fred turned around, his eyes wide in mock horror. "Nothing… but the Fat Lady has a puddle of drool the size of Europe down the front of her dress."

The group burst out laughing, the fear of being discovered quickly forgotten. And yet, Hermione's eyes strayed to the portrait, her ears pricked. She found herself wondering if the Gryffindor common room might have an unexpected visitor after all. Draco had walked her back there one evening after they had stayed in the library until far past curfew – he knew how to find it, and would have determined that she would be there. She sat up, the cogs in her head spinning, trying to come up with some excuse to check outside. It was perhaps egotistical of her to think that he would spend his evenings waiting for her to emerge, hanging about in case she happened to notice him – and it wasn't behaviour she would normally associate with Malfoy. But then again, he was becoming less and less like 'Malfoy' to her every day.

"Hermione?"

It was Ginny, who was even now following her gaze towards the portrait.

"What is it?"

"I thought I heard something, too."

This time, after the first anti-climax, the room did not grow as quiet and concerned. Ginny frowned, looking around at the others.

"Well, who could it be? McGonagall would have stormed straight in and given us all detention by now."

"It's probably Peeves trying to play a prank on us," Hermione said, the words tumbling easily out of her lips. "Or maybe Nearly Headless Nick. He always wants to be invited to this kind of thing."

"Oh god," Ron groaned from across the room. "If it's Nearly Headless Nick, don't let him in. I can't stand to hear another word about how he wasn't invited to the Bloody Baron's stupid headless Christmas party this year."

"I'll go and get rid of him," Hermione said.

She climbed off of the sofa and strode towards the portrait, hoping she had been confident enough to dissuade anyone from arguing with her, or worse, offering to come with her. Luckily, Ron was still bewailing Nearly Headless Nick's recent sour mood, to the amusement of the others. When she looked back, she found Harry's eyes straying to he momentarily before he turned away to listen to Ron, smiling tiredly. Her heart leapt, and she climbed out of the portrait and into the corridor. The stone floor and walls brought a cold bite to the air after the warm haze of the fire in the common room, and she wrapped her arms around herself. The large knit jumper she had pulled on after the second task was the warmest she owned, but spending half the day at the bottom of a lake had a way of chilling the bones. She looked around at the quiet corridor, the darkness lit intermittently with the bobbing light of several floating candles.

As soon as her eyes had swept over the darkness at either end of the corridor and found it empty, she felt extremely silly for presuming that the noise had been Draco. Of course he wouldn't have wanted to spend his evening sitting outside the Gryffindor common room in the hope that she might pop out for a moment. And yet despite chiding herself for thinking such a thing, she couldn't help but feel disappointed. She turned to go back into the common room, noticing as she did so the trickle of dribble that had made its way down the snoring Fat Lady's chin and was pooling on her dress. And then a flicker of movement caught her eye.

She almost flinched out of her skin as a dark shape shifted behind the suit of armour which stood beside the portrait. The panic was there only for a moment before she recognised the glinting blue-grey eyes and sheer white hair, and her heart soared.

"Scared, Granger?"

She tried to look angry, but she was smiling too much. "Of course not. What are you doing here?"

He stepped out from behind the suit of armour, moving slowly and gracefully like a cat, glancing at the Fat Lady as he emerged. She understood his trepidation – the portrait was renowned for her loud, shrill voice, and they would surely be discovered if she woke up. He kept his voice low as he spoke.

"Happened to be passing. I wanted to congratulate you on your performance in the second task." He stopped just in front of her, cocking his head. "When, exactly, did you volunteer to be kidnapped by mermaids?"

She tried to stifle her laughter. "I didn't exactly volunteer. We were pulled out of class and told it would be rather quick and painless."

"Oh, good," he said lightly. His eyes narrowed slightly, and she didn't miss the hard undertone his words skated over. "Krum was quite the hero."

She rolled her eyes, reaching for his hand. He let her fingers interlink with his, shifting a little closer, the smirk still resiliently fixed on his face.

"Is that why you're loitering outside Gryffindor common room?" she asked with a smile. "You're worried I might run away with Krum in the night?"

"Or that he might come sneaking up here," he interjected, scowling. "Self-righteous little wanker, he probably thinks he could just come up here and–"

"Lie in wait for me outside Gryffindor tower like a stalker?"

He broke off, shooting her a petulant glare. "I'm not a stalker. I… I was just checking."

"You're jealous," she declared. And then, as he huffed and pointedly directed his gaze at the ceiling, his lip curling, she leaned closer to him and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. "I kind of like that you're jealous."

He looked at her quickly, and she was able to enjoy the savage delight in his face as he realised what she had said. He moved closer to her, looping his arms around her waist, his lips hovering tortuously close to hers.

"I'm not jealous," he said. "He's a prick. And I'm a catch."

"And I'm a Mudblood."

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them – she didn't even know where they had come from. He almost physically flinched, freezing as he was about to kiss her. He lifted his head, pulling away from her a little, his face tight with startled unease. He looked around, as if checking that there was no one lurking at the end of the corridor, no one who could see or overhear them. When he turned back to look at her, his eyes were two hard, dark pebbles in his pale skin.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She wished she hadn't said anything. Sure, the word had been flickering on the outskirts of her mind over the last month or so – the closer they grew, the more she questioned why he was even entertaining the idea. But he hadn't brought it up, and so she had ignored it. But she was not good at keeping her opinion to herself, nor at ignoring large elephants in small rooms. She did, however, regret spoiling the moment they had been about to indulge in. She searched for the right words.

"Well," she said, folding her arms. "It's true, isn't it? I mean… it's what you always used to call me. Doesn't it bother you anymore?"

His eyebrows pulled together. He was looking at her as if she had declared that her parents were Hippogriffs. His lips quivered slightly as he organised his thoughts, tried to force his tongue to articulate them.

"Well, yeah, I know, but… But it's not…"

She waited, letting him fumble through. She realised she was holding her breath, that this question had been bothering her more than she had understood. It wasn't as if she considered what they were doing serious – they still had not even approached the discussion of where on earth their little entanglement was going, if anywhere. But it still mattered. It was still important. She had to know. His hard gaze was wavering, and he took a deep breath.

"Do you remember the Quidditch World Cup? When I saw you and Weasel and Potter in the woods?"

His words caught her off guard. She frowned, the memory barely resurfacing. They had seen him so briefly, right before the drama of discovering the Dark Mark. He had been wandering in the trees alone, while the Death Eaters marched on through the campsite with their captives suspended in the air. She had completely forgotten that she had run into him at all. She wet her lips.

"Yes. In the forest?"

"I was in the forest because I was hiding. Because I was… I was scared that if the Death Eaters saw me, they might try to make me…" he paused, as if he was having difficulty remembering how to speak. His eyes travelled away from her, seeking a distraction on the walls, the floor. "…join in, or something. I don't know."

"You didn't want to?"

He shook his head. "Not really, no. So I headed back to the tent, tried to stay out of sight. And then I ran into you."

His words from that night suddenly leapt back into her head. She could see him there, leaning against the tree, barely visible in the darkness. His eyes and sneering teeth had glittered in the light of her wand.

 _Hadn't you better be hurrying along now? You wouldn't like_ her _spotted, would you… If you think they can't spot a Mudblood…_

"You were trying to warn us," she said, finishing the story for him.

"I don't know," he said uncomfortably. "There was just something… something wrong. When I saw it all in the real world, it didn't feel right."

She remembered seeing the Muggles dangling upside down, suspended in the air above the parade of Death Eaters, and suppressed a shudder. He was right – there was something about that night that had made everything a little more real for all of them, with or without the Dark Mark. She looked up at him and found him returning her gaze tremulously, uncertainty flickering in his face and his hands that picked at an invisible spot on his robes.

"And now?" she prompted.

"Now?" he swallowed hard. "I don't know."

His words were not particularly hurtful – they were honest, and she could feel how hard it was for him to face the subject. She had never seen him like this before, his voice uneven and hesitant, his lips tight. Clearly he was trying to be straight with her. She considered what he had said, turning it over carefully in her mind, trying to figure out where she fit in. As the silence stretched on between them, he suddenly let out a thin, uncomfortable laugh.

"Is this your way of telling me you're not interested?" he said, lifting his hands slightly in mock defence. "Because, really, you could've just sent me a card or something."

His tone was too forced to carry off the jovial spin he was trying to apply to the conversation. The nervous edge that had settled over him suddenly seemed endearing, and she realised that she had let her own face lapse into a serious, unsmiling frown which must be quite disconcerting. She quickly took a step towards him, closing the gap that had opened up between them over their frigid discussion.

"It's not that," she said. "It's definitely not that."

His fingertips brushed tentatively against hers, and she wove her fingers through his once more. They stood there for a few long moments, each considering what exactly they were getting into.

"This is weird," he said, with a playful smirk. "No denying that."

"No," she agreed, smiling. "But… maybe we could figure it out."

The sentimental weight of what she had just said made her cheeks grow warm with embarrassment, but relief shone briefly in his face before his familiar smirk was back again. His hand moved again to settle on her waist, pulling her towards him. It was strange, the easiness with which everything complicated fell away from them when he was this close to her. She let her hands wander up to settle on his shoulders, and the Yule Ball popped briefly into her head.

"Good idea," he said, his voice low. "Where should we start?"

She was about to reply by suggesting that they meet at the library the following day and research where the term 'Mudblood' had first been coined, and its exact meaning and connotation so that they could more easily understand how it had effected their socio-political conditioning. But then he had leaned forwards, and she realised that the question had been quite rhetorical. She kissed him back, the thrill of it building a pit of heat in her belly and stealing the air from her lungs.

She had to break away eventually, knowing that the others would be wondering where on earth she had gone. He let go of her hand slowly as she made for the portrait, her eyes still trained on him.

"Don't forget to tell Krum to go fuck himself," he called softly. "Wouldn't want him getting any ideas."

"Actually," she said, her hand on the portrait, "I was thinking of keeping him as a pen-pal over the summer."

She climbed back into the common room still grinning from the look of stunned disbelief on his face and, as the others looked up at her, realised that she had forgotten to come up with a story to tell them.

She became rather adept at improvising over the course of that year.

 _Now_

They Apparated just in front of Hogwarts' gates, and the familiar sight of the castle against the clouded December sky greeted him like an old friend. Draco had such vivid memories of the pure white grounds, the silent, snow-capped forest, the turrets and towers frosted with a shimmering film. Hogwarts had always come into its own at Christmas time. There had been Peeves' incessant pranks, the insurmountable feasts in the Great Hall and, best of all, lying entwined with Hermione in her Prefect room bed, nothing and no one to stop them, until one of them was dragged away home for the holidays. The last time he had laid eyes on this place, it had been in ruin. The final battle had torn it apart, set it on fire, burned it to the ground. And yet now the castle had come back to life, almost as if there had never been a battle at all. But then, the scars left over from the battle were not to be seen in the castle itself. As he took Hermione's hand and headed into the grounds, his eyes were drawn instantly to the tall, white marble sculpture which stood at the edge of the forbidden forest, close to the lake. It was such a familiar place, a place that he had Hermione had once gone to when they wanted to be alone, when they wanted to talk or laugh without worrying about people watching them. It was strange to think that, after all that had happened, their biggest fear had once been simply being discovered.

It was towards the memorial that Hermione and Draco now walked, hand in hand, side by side. It was dusk, which meant that the distant flickering candles in some of the windows of Hogwarts cast a dull light over the rolling grounds. Some of the teachers and staff had begun to return in preparation for the new school year. Soon, they would all be picking up where they had left off. Which was a strange thought to be confronted with, particularly after all that had happened. Their footprints marked a steady tread across the immaculate white carpet, over to the foot of the marble form. She let go of his hand as they grew nearer, passing over the bouquet of lilies they had brought with them. He took them, but it was a few moments before he had gathered the courage to step forwards without her. But the privacy was necessary – he hadn't had a chance to have this moment to himself yet. He approached the memorial slowly. Its fluid, twisting shape reminded him of a tongue of flame, arching up into the sky. It was an abstract form. Perhaps, either way, that was appropriate.

He reached the low step at the foot of it and knelt down to lay the lilies carefully at its base. It was almost as if there was a force field of peace around the structure – as if he had stepped into a calm bubble of silence. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to think of something appropriate to say. But there was nothing quite appropriate, nothing that would make sense. So he just said the first thing that came into his head. Hi words were stunted and halting in the cold air.

"Hi, Mum. I wanted to give you these. It's not a proper grave but… but I don't think you'd want to be buried in the family crypt anyway. I'm so sorry for… for everything that happened. If I'd have been braver, if I'd tried harder… I always wanted you to be safe. And now I just… I just really miss you."

His eyes were growing hot. He glanced down at the snow for a few moments, taking a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He didn't know what would sound right. He should have planned something, written something down. Words teetered on the edge of his tongue, always too small to encompass everything he wanted to say.

"I don't really believe in an afterlife. But if it's real, and if you're there, I hope you can be happy now. If I can see you again, I'd be glad to be wrong. Just know that I love you, and I miss you… that I'll always miss you. You were always the best half of me."

He heard footsteps crunching in the snow behind him, and dragged a hand across his face. He rose to his feet in time for her to duck under his arm and wrap her arms around his waist. His eyes were slightly watery and his lips were quirking, but he took a deep shuddering breath as she clasped her hands around him and pressed his lips briefly against her forehead, grateful for the contact. She leaned on him, her eyes on the fluttering petals of the lilies.

"You ok?" she said softly.

He huffed. "Yeah. It's… It's good."

She looked up at him, trying to read his face. He smiled weakly, allowing himself the freedom to let his walls down, and shifted to open his coat and let her slip her arms under it. Her cool hands moved up his back.

"I'm ok," he heard himself say.

They stood there together for a long time, letting the snow fall and settle against their skin and hair in great, fat flakes. It did feel good. It felt like unwrapping a wound that had been bleeding for a long time, and finally sewing it shut. He had been denied the chance to say goodbye during the battle. He had forced everything that reminded him of his mother out of his mind in the months since, trying to just make it through each day as best he could. But the news about his father had driven home just how familiar death was now, and how little time he had given it. Now, as he looked down at the long, thin petals tinged with pink lying on the memorial, he felt as if something prickly and hard in his chest had released for the first time in months.

He looked down at her, and found her watching the flowers, her arms wrapped tightly around him. He smiled and pulled at her.

"Come on. It's Christmas Eve, after all."

She held on until he looked down at her, and then reached up on her tiptoes to kiss him gently. The heat of her lips against his was enough to send a shiver down his spine and make him wish they were going back to a place of their own, but they had agreed to attend a certain Christmas party. She parted from him, frowning. Her large brown eyes reflected the snowflakes that tangled in her hair.

"Are you sure you want to go?"

She always had been good at reading his mind. He smirked.

"Come on, nerd."

She slipped her hand into his, and he took one last look at the monument, at the lilies in the snow. He heard the _crack_ as they Disapparated, and closed his eyes.

The tall, lopsided shape of the Burrow appeared when he opened them, and he could feel his shoulders stiffening automatically. He knew them all much better now, but there was still something about being cornered in a room with his former enemies that filled him with uncertainty. Hermione turned to face him, taking a moment to tug his collar straight and smooth his blazer. He watched her serious face, enjoying the way her hair was already breaking free of the smooth curls she had wrestled it into. She was wearing a dress beneath her woollen coat that he was particularly fond of, and he was looking forward to going inside and getting said coat out of the way. She glanced up at him, and he lifted a hand to push a stray strand of hair back from her face. She smiled.

"Ready?"

He nodded.

Almost as soon as they turned towards the door, it flew open and warm light spilled out into the gathering dark. Ginny's long red hair was impossible to mistake, and Hermione held out her arms to embrace her friend as they reached the doorway.

"There you are! We thought you weren't coming!"

"We're here," she said with a smile. "Sorry we're late, we were–"

"Is that Hermione?"

Mr. Weasley appeared, leaning past Ginny, his face slightly flushed with alcohol to match his flaming hair. His eyes shifted to Draco and only darkened a little before he smiled. The slight strain in his voice was almost unnoticeable.

"Evening, Malfoy."

Draco inclined his head slightly. As they stepped into the hubbub of noise and motion inside, he pulled a bottle wrapped in brown paper from his pocket and offered it to their host.

"Happy Christmas – we got you a little something to say thank you."

Mr. Weasley's eyebrows lurched, but he covered his surprise quickly and pulled the brown paper wrapping aside. Draco shared a brief glance with Hermione, who was looking very pleased with herself. She had been adamant that the Dragonbreath Firewhiskey was a favourite of the Weasley patriarch, and that it would smooth over any ruffled feathers at Draco's arrival in a heartbeat. It seemed that, once again, she was correct – he watched with bemused satisfaction as Mr. Weasley fumbled for a moment, stammered out a couple of half-formed expressions of gratitude, and then gave in and simply offered Draco a short, business-like handshake before striding off into the kitchen to show Molly.

"Think we got past the bouncer," Draco muttered.

Hermione chuckled, and Draco took the opportunity to glance around at the busy living room. Molly was there, rushing to and fro from the adjoining kitchen, levitating a couple of glasses of mulled wine over to them without even looking over. The room was cramped with all manner of Muggle devices and odd furniture – and grouped around the fireplace in a bubble of noise and laughter were the usual suspects. Ginny, Harry, Ron, Percy, Bill and Fleur – a medley of redheads clad in Christmas jumpers.

"Happy Christmas," Harry called to them, lifting his mulled wine. "How're the parents, Hermione?"

"They're fine," she replied, leading the way over to the group. "How're the travelling plans coming along?"

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but beside him Ginny's eyes had lit up at once and she beat him to it.

"Great. We're going inter-railing around Europe, then on to Morocco, then India. And after that–"

"It's a poor choice, you know," Percy cut in, frowning from behind his glasses. "You two should really finish your education before gallivanting off on a world tour."

"It's Christmas, you Grinch," Bill smirked. "Leave them alone. Repeating the final year at Hogwarts is optional anyway."

"Percy does have a point," Hermione began, and then bit her lip as Harry and Ron grinned at each other. "It's just that we missed out on an awful lot, and it could come in really useful."

"What're you going to do, Malfoy?" Harry spoke up.

Draco's eyebrow arched automatically as the others looked around at him. Percy and Bill in particular eyed him with some suspicion. He caught Ron's eye briefly, which was only slightly uncomfortable. Some progress had been made. Perhaps all it took was being taken hostage with your enemies to get a little team building going. He lifted his chin.

"Depends," he said. "Not sure retired Death Eaters are allowed within 50 feet of vulnerable first years."

His joke fell a little flat – he knew his voice had sounded altogether too irritated to come off as humorous. But he was rescued by a voice from behind him before the atmosphere could turn awkward.

"Knock it off, Malfoy, you were a pathetic Death Eater."

He turned to find with some relief George coming into sight at the foot of the twisting stairs. The other boy offered him a lopsided grin.

"I mean, you dated one of Voldemort's most wanted and helped his greatest nemesis escape certain death. Even I could do a better job than that."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I don't think he took gingers, but find a time-turner and you're welcome to try."

George jerked his head at the back door, and Draco dropped a kiss to Hermione's cheek before heading after him, grateful for the opportunity to escape scrutiny. He didn't want to hear questions from the others. His court date was in a week, and he and Hermione had kept quiet about it all. He was sure that some of their friends must have been called as witnesses, but so far no one had brought it up. He preferred to keep things that way.

Outside, the garden was covered in a light frosting of snow and lit by large, glowing fireflies. The sky was clear here, pin-pricked with stars. He breathed in the cold night air and sipped from his mulled wine, enjoying the crunch of the snow beneath his shoes. Beside him, George put a cigarette between his teeth and smiled, rolling his eyes at the group inside.

"How's the arm?"

He stowed his drink on the windowsill and rolled his sleeve up, holding out his arm for George to inspect. The spell Travers had used had left a violent, uneven scar stretching from his elbow to his wrist. The Mark was still visible, but Draco had been informed that the Healers at St. Mungo's would be unable to heal the scar that had ripped through it. He was surprised to find that he didn't mind at all. It was almost a trophy, a physical symbol of his rebellion. Of his freedom.

"Gross," George remarked.

"Yeah," Draco smirked.

The other boy offered him the pack of cigarettes. Draco hesitated, his hand already halfway towards the box. George's eyebrows lifted, and Draco let out a short bark of laughter.

"I'm cutting down. Well, quitting. Supposedly."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Thought I should try and help maintain my health seeing as it's been so unexpectedly returned." He caught his tongue between his teeth, then shrugged took the box. "Well, it is Christmas."

He tapped a cigarette free, relishing the light weight of it between his fingers. He really had steered clear of them over the last few weeks. He knew he used them to hide behind, to mask anxiousness, and he was trying to do less of that these days. As George felt in his pocket for his wand, Draco held out his hand and clicked his fingers. His thumb was instantly lit with a small tongue of bright fire, which lit the end of the cigarette dangling from George's mouth with an orange glow. The expression of surprise and glee on George's face made him laugh out loud before lighting his own, unable to shake his smugness.

"So, what, you found some kind of magical laxative?"

"Don't worry, Ginge, you're safe for now." He breathed in the old, familiar taste of smoke and watched it rush out again in a soft plume into the night air. "It's almost back to normal now. Practice makes perfect. How's the shop?"

They stood out among the lights talking for a while, enjoying the soft ambiance of the fireflies at the bottom of the garden and the smell of food cooking on the night breeze. It was more comfortable out here in the garden with George – not quite so many niceties to navigate with the rest of the Weasleys. He was struck, too, by how different this Christmas was to any he had experienced before. At the Manor, Christmas had always felt like a formal, uncomfortable affair coupled with estranged family and excessive drinking. This was a very different atmosphere – the gentle hum of noise inside, the relaxed, easy manner in which the Weasley's laughed and called to one another… He was just beginning to relax when the distant sound of a knock on the front door caught his attention. George glanced around, frowning. Draco felt his mouth turn dry.

"Expecting someone?"

George shook his head. "Didn't think so."

The door opened and Draco listened to the surprised tones of the person who had answered it – perhaps Harry – and then, with a sinking sensation in his stomach, the unmistakable quiet voice of the person who replied. He couldn't make out what she was saying, but a quick glance at George's widening eyes confirmed his guess.

"What's Hestia doing here?" George muttered under his breath.

"Don't know."

Draco ran his tongue across his lips, his hand gripping his drink slightly harder than was necessary. He took a last drag on his cigarette and tossed the end aside, grimacing. The feeling was all too reminiscent of when she used to turn up unannounced to interrogate him at Grimmauld Place. What would require her to visit now, interrupting them on Christmas Eve? He could only suspect that he was about to be hauled into the Ministry, that their apparent luck had finally run out. He didn't turn around when footsteps approached and a silhouette blocked out some of the light from the back door.

"Evening, George. Malfoy."

George turned to greet her, but Draco could only keep his eyes on his drink. His tongue felt dry, and he could feel his heart beginning to pound a little faster in his chest. Hestia's voice sounded friendly, but then again her true feelings had always been rather difficult to read.

"Hi, Hestia. Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas, George. Malfoy, could I have a word?"

He could sense George looking at him, as if asking for permission to leave, and swallowed down his building anxiety. Shooting the other boy a brief nod, he turned to face Hestia. She stood there in the doorway, her face cast half in shadow, her hair drawn back into its usual stern ponytail. And yet, for the first time, she was not wearing her Auror robes. Instead, she was wearing black jeans and a dragonskin jacket. Caught off guard by her informal appearance, he had to remind himself that she had asked him a question. He tried to appear cavalier, despite his cover having already been blown by his extended hesitation.

"Depends. What word in particular?"

She stepped into the garden, and George seemed to take the hint. He paused in the doorway on his way back inside.

"Drink, Hestia? Draco?"

"No, thank you," she replied. "We won't be long."

Which left George no choice but to leave them alone in the garden. Draco sipped his drink and turned away to watch the fireflies, the air practically shivering with uneasiness as Hestia moved forward to stand beside him. She did not continue with her usual approach, instead simply standing in silence, her hands in her pockets. Eventually, his nerves got the better of him and he spoke up first.

"So, joining us for dinner are you? I think Molly's got some kind of delicious roast on."

"Thank you, I'm a vegetarian."

"Of course," he smirked. "Didn't know the Ministry made you guys work on Christmas. You'd think imprisoning the last of the Death Eaters would earn you a decent holiday."

"I wasn't required to work today. I had a couple of things I wanted to wrap up before Christmas Day." She turned to face him, her arms folding across her chest, her eyes narrowing. "You're looking well. I hear your arm has healed and your magic is progressing."

"Yeah," he said. "Is that why you're here? I'm considered a menace again?"

Her eyes flickered with something, and he could have sworn that she had almost smiled. She reached into her jacket and removed a scroll of parchment from her inside pocket. Draco's stomach lurched at once, and he reflexively gripped his glass tighter. He glanced briefly towards the door to the kitchen, making out motion just inside. If they had brought a warrant for his arrest, surely he would be able to see Hermione first, to say goodbye… Hestia cleared her throat, spinning the parchment between her fingers.

"I need to speak with you." She paused, and he thought he detected a hint of uncertainty in her face. She glanced briefly towards the open door, as if to check that they were alone. "As you know, a couple of weeks ago the Death Eaters impersonated my colleague, abducted yourself and Mr. Weasley from Grimmauld Place, and then attempted to coerce Mr. Potter and Ms. Granger into a trap by impersonating you."

He couldn't understand what she was getting at. "I'm aware."

She looked at him. Her dark eyes glinted in the halflight. "And I'm sure Ms. Granger has shared with you that I knew that my colleague was an undercover Death Eater when I left you with him at Grimmauld Place."

Of all the things he had expected her to say, this was not at all in the ballpark. Of course, he and Hermione had talked about it, but he had assumed the plot was born out of Hestia's personal vendetta against him and, therefore, not to be brought up. He frowned, trying to figure out where on earth this odd conversation was headed. Hestia sighed.

"I guessed at their plan, but couldn't be sure that we could capture all of them without letting them carry it out at least partially. I waited for them to contact Mr. Potter and Ms. Granger and then gave chase, correctly assuming that this would allow us to capture at least one Death Eater, learn the location of the others, and successfully put a stop to the operation."

"And you're telling me this because…"

"Because I knowingly put you in danger in order to fulfil the mission. I apologise." Her face was slightly strained in the light from the open door, a kind of sincerity flickering in her eyes that he was not at all used to. "I felt that Ron would either be able to capture the first Death Eater, or failing that would be too valuable to kill. I did not expect them to keep you alive for longer than a day at most."

He considered her words quietly. In truth, it made a lot more of the events of that day fall into place – there would have had to have been one oversight too many for the Death Eaters' plan to have worked. The polyjuice, followed by the lack of security at Grimmauld Place, followed by Harry and Hermione being able to easily leave their safehold… looking back, it was all too obvious that someone had been steering the situation towards their own means. What was rather unexpected was Hestia's response now. He looked up at the Auror, who was standing in front of him in silence, her serious dark eyes fixed on him. She folded her hands behind her back, her shoulders straightening.

"I apologise for placing you in danger, Mr. Malfoy," she said, her voice firm and level.

"Quite alright," he said hoarsely, and was surprised to find that he meant it. "You got them off the streets, didn't you?"

"You won't have to worry about them anymore," she said, offering a small nod. "I'm grateful for your help in the matter."

He decided against pointing out that he had not helped willingly. She lifted the scroll of parchment, which he had almost forgotten about, and held it out to him.

"I wanted to give you this. It's your court ruling."

Any happy surprise he had been expecting was instantly extinguished. So it was confirmed. The Ministry had decided to sentence him without even giving him a chance to defend himself. She had come to explain that his court date had been cancelled, and that he had a cell in Azkaban with his name on it ready and waiting. The apology for putting him in danger had simply been to soften the blow. He took the scroll of parchment she was holding out, and suddenly found that he didn't have the guts to open it. He tried to smirk at her.

"So, not such a friendly visit after all. Are you arresting me before dinner, or after?"

"You're acquitted, Malfoy. Of all charges."

He stared at her. She stared back with her dark, serious eyes. It was the only time that he had ever been convinced that she was capable of joking. Her gaze moved to the parchment and back to his face before she elaborated.

"The Ministry has heard all of the evidence put forward from our interviews, and from other witnesses. The extreme circumstances of your involvement in Lord Voldemort's campaign due to your parents actions are enough to suggest significant coercion. The Death Eaters' attempt on your life helped your position. Travers and Nott also complained at some length about you being a 'slimy traitor', as they eloquently put it. I offered a character reference on your behalf to support the motion."

Her words were not making sense in his mind. He held the scroll with both hands, unable to do anything but gape at her like a fish out of water. All he could see was bright green light flashing against tall trees. He wet his lips, realising that she had been quiet for a while.

"I would've thought some of the charges were a little…" he cleared his throat uncomfortably. "…uncompromising."

"Your affiliation with Death Eater activity will remain on your permanent record. However, your assistance during the war and subsequent aid in imprisoning the Death Eaters will also be on your file."

He blinked at her. "But… But what about…"

She fixed him with a sudden, unwavering glare. It was clear that she had not wanted him to bring this particular topic up, and he quickly fell silent. But he had to understand, and eventually she let out a slow sigh. She looked away, towards the fireflies at the bottom of the garden. For the first time, there was something vulnerable about the way her face twisted before she spoke. Her voice broke through the cool air like a knife through butter.

"During the war, the Death Eaters carried out an attack on a group of Aurors fighting on behalf of the resistance. Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott cornered one Ursula Tavistock. Ursula Tavistock was murdered by Theodre Nott that night, who had been ordered to kill her by Lord Voldemort."

"But…"

"I strongly recommend that you keep your particular memories of that night to yourself." She took a deep breath, and he had the distinct sense that she was trying to condense a great well of emotion into as few words as possible. "That's the official record of events. As far as the Ministry is concerned, you had no part in it."

"Why would you…"

"Malfoy." Hestia looked over her shoulder once more, back towards the warm house and the happy voices. "The use of the Killing Curse is unforgiveable. The Ministry would not have pardoned it, not under any circumstances."

"So you lied to them? You obscured evidence?"

She seemed to find that funny. Her eyes drifted upwards towards the starlit sky, her face oddly soft. "Ursula was always far more understanding than I am. During those months while we were at war, we spoke now and then. She would always end up saying, 'Don't we all deserve a chance to put this war behind us?'"

She shifted, glancing at him, as if remembering he was there. "Perhaps that's her legacy. Perhaps she's right."

Draco stared at her. It was possibly the most forgiveness she would ever offer him, and he was sure that this was the last time they would ever discuss Ursula. He could not have imagined, when first explaining what had happened to Hestia in his attic sick-room, that they would have ended up here. It was the greatest gift she could have given him, and one that could potentially destroy her career. He didn't dare pursue his questions on her decision to hand him a free pass to the rest of his life. Instead, he let his face twist into a half-hearted sneer.

"Maybe," he said. "Either way, she was braver than me."

She only looked at him. He couldn't read her face, and focussed instead on the fireflies. Part of him was still waiting for her to reveal that the whole thing had been a trick, but she only stood their quietly with him. After a while, she spoke up once more.

"Are you going back to Hogwarts to repeat your final year?"

The question caught him off guard. He paused, taking a gulp of his drink. Their conversation had been too much of a rollercoaster for him to continue without the help of alcohol. He shrugged.

"Hadn't thought about it," and then, with a smirk, "Homework is going to feel a little trivial."

"Well, it's not the only option," she said, her tone playful. "The Ministry is always on the lookout for new Aurors to train."

Draco let out a bark of laughter. "You're joking. They'd never let me in."

"I don't know," she said. "Devil you know is better than the devil you don't, and all that. You might be good at it."

He looked at her to check if she was joking, but as always her face was a wall. Any shred of emotion she had unveiled previously was now gone. She was once again Hestia Jones, with her severe ponytail and calculating eyes, surveying him cautiously as one might observe a threstral from a distance. She glanced over her shoulder as there was an eruption of laughter from inside.

"Seems the festivities are underway." She held out her hand to him and he shook it, still convinced that he had hallucinated the entire conversation. But her grip was warm and real, and she inclined her head slightly as she stepped away. "Enjoy your freedom, Malfoy."

She turned on the spot and Disapparated, leaving him alone in the garden. He slowly unrolled the parchment and ran his gaze over the carefully inscribed letters, still not quite able to believe it. And yet there it was – inexplicably, the court ruling had been in his favour. Perhaps it paid to have a guilty Auror on your side.

"Draco?"

He looked up. Hermione had appeared in the doorway. He took her in – her frizzy mane of hair, her dress, her calculating gaze and furrowed brow – and he smiled.

~O~

Hestia's arrival at the Burrow abruptly punctured the warm glow Hermione had been settling into, and she did her best not to look unhappy to see her. The Auror greeted them quietly and declined a glass of mulled wine before enquiring as to Draco's whereabouts. If Hermione had been nervous before, she was terrified now. She watched with her heart in her mouth as Hestia crossed the room and disappeared out into the garden, her shoulders straight and her head held high. The only comforting factor was that she was not drawing her wand.

Ron nudged her in the ribs and she flinched, so focussed on the Auror that she hadn't even noticed him move over to her.

"What's that about?" he muttered.

She shook her head. "No idea. His court date isn't for another week."

"How's it looking?"

"Uncertain," she said ruefully. "There's so much to go over… It's complicated."

He rolled his eyes. "It always is."

She allowed herself a small laugh at that. She glanced towards the garden, but she could no longer see Hestia or Draco. She could only assume that they were talking – about what, she would have to wait to find out. Beside her Ron shifted uncomfortably, his eyes wandering around the room, looking anywhere but her. She suddenly realised that it was the first time that they had been alone together in a long while – Ginny, Fleur and Percy were arguing over some recent regulation from the Ministry, Harry and Bill were helping Mrs. Weasley, and George and Mr. Weasley were talking over a glass of whiskey in the corner. She and Ron were well and truly alone.

"Thanks for asking," she said. And then, in a lower voice, "And, Ron… I never really thanked you for what you did. With the Death Eaters."

He snorted, but she could tell that he was slightly flustered. His ears were already growing pink. "What d'you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

She turned towards him a little more, blocking their conversation from the others. Ron's earnest, tentative freckled face tilted towards her. She kept her voice soft as she spoke, not wishing to invite attention.

"Draco told me that he wouldn't have survived without you. He said you wrapped up his arm and led the way out."

Ron shrugged awkwardly. "Well, couldn't leave the git there, could I? You would've told me off."

"Yes," she said with a smile. "But still… Thank you."

"S'alright." He jerked his head at the back yard. "So, are you transferring to Slytherin when you go back to Hogwarts, or what?"

She elbowed him, rolling her eyes. "I haven't _changed,_ Ron, nothing's changed really. I'm the same as I've always been."

"Except for the ferret tagging along everywhere you go now."

The bitterness was only just noticeable in his voice. She paused, trying to formulate how best to proceed. He was still hurt, clearly. She was surprised that the others had all adjusted to the change so well, considering what a shock the revelation had been. It was to be expected that Ron would be the last to come around. And yet she couldn't help but feel like they were close to bridging the gap, finding some kind of reconciliation. She watched as George pulled an ancient record player down from a shelf and tapped it with his wand – it promptly began to emit the radio, which was playing ancient Christmas songs.

"I know it's strange for you. I just…" she could feel a lump growing in her throat, and hurriedly swallowed it down. "I miss you. And even though everything is different now, I hope… I hope we can still be friends. Because you're one of my best friends, Ron."

He laughed, shuffled awkwardly, and then abruptly threw an arm around her shoulder. His movements were stiff and uncomfortable, but she would take that over him yelling at her or storming out any day. She met his gaze as he looked down at her, his hazel eyes clouded.

"Don't be silly, 'Mione. Of course we're friends."

She let out a breath she hadn't realised she had been holding. He released her quickly, glancing around to make sure that no one had noticed, and she held up her glass to clink against his. An effort to diffuse the ice.

"So?" she challenged as he took a sip. "Are you going back to Hogwarts for the final year?"

He shook his head. "Nah. Hestia's setting me up with her colleague at the Ministry. I'm going into an apprenticeship there. Auror training."

She smiled. "You'll like that."

"Yeah." He nodded at Ginny and Harry. "Not as much as I'd like to go hitch-hiking around Europe like these two, but whatever. I really thought Harry would be trying out to be an Auror too, you know?"

"No." She watched as Harry laughed at something Bill had just said, raking his hands through his scruffy hair. "I think he's had enough of fighting. He deserves a holiday."

"And the ferret?" Ron glanced over at the back yard.

"It kind of depends."

She followed his eyeline, concerned that Draco and Hestia were still out there. She couldn't figure out what was so important that it had to be said now, and could only assume that something had gone wrong. That she was going to take him away from her. She felt like she was constantly waiting for someone to snatch him away from her again. She didn't even really like having him out of her sight for long anymore, preferring to at least have him within earshot. It was irrational, but after the chaos of the last few months, she knew it would be a while before she could relax into normal existence again.

Ginny joined them, rescuing her from her thoughts, and she tried to listen to her and Ron discussing the recent win for the Holyhead Harpies before a distant _crack_ reached her ears, and she found herself moving reflexively to the back door. For a moment she was sure Hestia would have dragged him off somewhere, but there he was, standing in the garden alone, pouring over a piece of parchment. His grey-blue eyes were shining with a medley of feeling. She loved seeing him in a suit. His white blonde hair was smoothed back against his skull, his face unusually open and vulnerable rather than wearing its usual trademark sneer. It struck her that he had gone through a transformation of sorts over the past few months. He looked brighter, newer, stronger. His shoulders heaved in a deep sigh, and she stepped out into the garden.

"Draco?"

He looked up at her, and a rare full, warm smile spread over his face. She felt the tension in her stomach ease at once and headed over to him, sparing a glance up at the night sky as she went.

"What's that?"

"It's my court ruling."

He was trying to smirk, but he couldn't quite hide how happy he was. She took the parchment from him and read it quickly. Her stomach flipped over and she looked up at him, her eyes wide.

"Is this…?"

"Hestia just gave it to me." He lifted a hand to tuck her hair back behind her ear, ran his thumb over her cheekbone. "Looks like you're stuck with me, nerd."

The joy of the surprise seemed to suck all the air out of her lungs. She reached for him, wrapping her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. He laughed and she felt his lips against her head, felt his arms wrap tightly around her in response.

"You did it," she murmured.

The dizzying realisation that it was over, that they were free, was hard to come to terms with. She realised that she hadn't yet let herself believe that this was a possibility for them. That morning in Shell Cottage when they had made breakfast together was now a tangible potential future – they would go to bed together each night, they would share details of mundane daily life, they would dodge chores and drink wine.

"What do you want to do first?" he said, his voice rumbling against her ear. "Go on holiday? Get a flat?"

"I don't care." She held tight to him, swallowing back the emotion rising in her throat. "Anything."

She drew back and reached up to push her fingers through his hair, savouring every piece of him. Somehow, against all odds, they had made it. They had won. His blue eyes fixed on hers and she could almost feel the heat from them, the overwhelming intensity. He still had the same effect on her as he always had. From the open door of the house her ears snatched at fragments of conversation, at the melody of some song or other playing on the radio. And, as he lifted his wine to his lips, she was sure something was familiar about it.

"Listen…" she said, cocking her head.

He did. Through the open window came the distant drumbeat, the lilting melody, the melancholic vocals. His face shone with sudden understanding and he let out a bark of laughter.

"I hate this song," she said, letting a grin spread over her face.

"God, me too," he chuckled.

He swigged down the last of his drink and put down his glass on the ground, reached out to take hers off her. She let him, watched him straighten up and pull his jacket straight with theatrical care.

"What're you doing?"

"What do you think?"

He stepped up to her and she took the hand he held out. He pulled her against him and she leaned her forehead against his, nuzzled his cheek with her own as he began to sway. The first time they had done this, they had both been so nervous that their bodies had barely even shifted – they had moved in tight, carefully organized circles and she had done everything in her power not to look at him. Her heart had been pounding so hard that it almost leapt from her chest when the first years came running out of the bushes nearby. Now, she let her body slide up against his like a puzzle piece, let her hands stray from his shoulders to his waist and back. His wandered perilously slowly from her hips to her butt before one hand stopped on the small of her back, the other lifting to pass over her hair, down her nose, and finally catching up her hand and interlacing his fingers with hers.

"Granger," he said softly through a trademark smirk.

"Do shut up, Malfoy," she muttered back, her lips ghosting against his neck.

She leaned back a little, took the time to take him in. She let herself bask in the vivid memory of first losing herself in those liquid pools of blue and grey, of first feeling his hands on her. Of him tapping on the window of her Prefect room, his broomstick hovering just outside. Of lying in bed together, half asleep, legs entwined. The fairy lights in the garden lit his skin with a dim amber glow, painting shadows across his cheekbones, his white blonde hair, his neck. He was older now, and yet she could have sworn that he was looking at her with the same intensity as he had then. His tongue darted out and ran across his lips. Apparently, after all this time, he still had the power to leave her breathless.

"Make me."

So, she did. She put her arms around his neck, standing on her tiptoes to reach, and as his arms encircled her waist she let her lips move across his in a way that sent sparks through her stomach and made her blood pound in her veins. His body melded against her, so close that she was sure she could hear his blood too. As far as she was concerned, that was how they could stay forever. But after an amount of time which could have been five minutes or five hours, her ears caught at a voice calling for them. Reluctantly, she let go of him. He groaned.

"No, no, no, fuck the party. Let's stay here."

"Later," she promised, smiling impishly. "Come on. We can tell them the good news."

She kissed him one last time before taking his hand and tugging him back across the garden, towards the golden light spilling out of the back door. He stopped her, digging his heels in, and she looked back to find him smirking at her, his lips parted, his eyes running over her hungrily.

"Hey Granger?"

"What?"

His smirk widened. "I love you. You nerd."

She thought that he might have been the most beautiful thing she had ever seen at that moment. It took her a few moments to respond, her heart full and her eyes bright. She went back to him, enjoying the look of smug elation lingering on his face as she placed her hands on his chest. She let him dip his head to lean his forehead against hers, revelled in the intimacy.

"I love you, too. Happy Christmas, Draco."

 _The End._

 **Thanks for sticking around for the ending, I really hope you enjoyed it. I'd love to hear what you think of it - and, if you want to really inflate my ego, you could tell me what you think the Yule Ball song is. I honestly have no idea.**

 **Until next time!**

 **SUPRNTRAL LVR.**


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